CSI: Death by Chocolate
by Beth Einspanier
Summary: CSICharlie and the Chocolate Factory DeppMovie crossover. A young man is found in the desert, having been drowned in chocolate. Who would want him dead, and what does he have to do with a reclusive chocolatier from London?
1. Prologue

CSI: Death by Chocolate

A crossover fanfiction by Beth Einspanier

Disclaimers: "CSI: Crime Scene Investigation" and all related characters are the property of CBS. Las Vegas, on the other hand, is the property of Nevada. "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory", including but not limited to the characters of Charlie Bucket and Willy Wonka, are also not mine, though after seeing the recent Johnny Depp movie I wish Wonka was mine. Oh well. All rights reserved.

Note: This fic takes place ten years after the events described in "Chocolate Factory".

* * *

The young man lay sprawled in the desert brush like an impromptu reproduction of DaVinci's "Vitruvian Man", though in the dim after-dusk light it was hard to make out without a flashlight, and since he was dead the effect was little appreciated by those who currently had them.

He was dressed in a suit and tie, though the suit was – had once been – brilliant royal blue, not a color one ordinarily found in a menswear catalog. Now it was badly stained with something thick and brown that smelled vaguely rancid. His dead eyes stared blindly towards the sky, and were it not for the flies blithely exploring the brown stuff rimming his eyes and caked in his nose and mouth he might have looked merely strung out.

Gil Grissom shone his flashlight over the victim's face, and saw more brown stuff caked in the surrounding hair, which was short and otherwise fairly well-groomed. Whatever the brown stuff was, it had been carefully wiped away from most of the vic's face, probably postmortem. If anything, the young man looked vaguely startled rather than afraid.

"Ugh," grimaced Nick Stokes as he came up beside his boss, "What is all that?" He indicated the brown stains with a cautious wave of his hand.

"That, Nick, is one of many reasons we wear gloves at a crime scene. It could be nothing, of course—"

"Or it could be exactly what it looks like."

"Precisely. Any ID?" This question was directed to a nearby police officer.

"He had what looks like a passport in his inside coat pocket." He handed the passport to Grissom, who immediately saw that it was fouled with the same brown stuff, to the point of illegibility. He bagged it, making a mental note to send it to Document Retrieval when they were done at the scene.

"Hey Griss, take a look at his hands." Nick held up one of the victim's brown-stained hands for Grissom's flashlight. There were smooth white fibers caught under the nails, along with the brown stuff. "Looks like he struggled." With tweezers, he took a sample of one of the fibers – they looked like animal hairs – to look at more closely back at the lab.

"There's one thing I don't see, though," Grissom observed.

"What's missing?" Nick looked around, though he knew it was silly to look for something that wasn't there.

"Our scene. The brown stuff is pretty much confined to the body itself, and I don't see any source for the white fibers. It looks to me like our John Doe was dumped here. I think, though, that once we find out what this is…" He crumbled off a bit of the brown stuff from the vic's jacket. "…we'll know better where our crime scene is."

Little did either of them know that John Doe had once been the luckiest boy in the world…


	2. The Luckiest Boy in the World

"Sorry I'm late, guys," Warrick said as he entered the crime scene and pulled on a pair of gloves, "Traffic's been insane all week. Some big store opening on the Strip, I don't know. What do we got?"

"John Doe, probably a dump job," Nick summarized, "He had a messed-up passport, a couple sets of keys, one of them with a car alarm remote on it, and a hotel keycard on him, too."

"Not a local, then. Maybe he's here for the same reason as everyone else and their cat is here."

"Probably." Nick shone his flashlight across the scrubby grass. "Got a footprint." He photographed it, the crouched down for a better look.

"This place is a haven for nature hikes. I bet there's footprints everywhere."

Nick grinned. "Not one with a date on it, I bet."

"Okay, I'll bite." Warrick went over to where Nick was hunkered and saw—

A discarded newspaper page, on which someone had stepped, leaving a decent impression of their shoe – what looked to be a running shoe, small enough to be a woman's – in the rumpled paper. The page was dominated by a full-color ad that fairly screamed to the reader that "WILLY WONKA'S WONDERFUL WORLD IS COMING TO LAS VEGAS THIS WEEKEND! For the first time in thirty years, WILLY WONKA will be opening a specialty store, right in the heart of the Las Vegas Strip! Come SEE the MARVELOUS confections and sweets of such ASTRONOMICAL CALIBRE that they could only come from… WILLY WONKA!" The last WILLY WONKA was in curled script three inches high, and below it was a colorful drawing of a laughing man dressed in a purple suit of a cut that had gone out of style nearly a hundred years ago, complete with a bold top hat. The cartoon man was spreading his arms like an old-time ringmaster, as though basking in his own aura of greatness.

The footprint had landed squarely on the purple ringmaster.

"I guess somebody doesn't like candy," Warrick suggested.

Nick traced the W in the last WONKA with a gloved finger. "Now that's interesting," he remarked.

"You sound like Grissom. What's interesting?"

"There was a W just like this one on one of the keyring fobs we got off our vic."

"Maybe he's involved with this opening."

"Maybe. Hopefully we'll be able to find some locks to go with those keys. In the meantime, we know for a fact that this print was made sometime in the last two days." He tapped the date on the newspaper: July 4, 2005, with the perfect ad to go along with the Independence Day festivities.

Warrick checked the date on his watch. It was July the seventh, Thursday – or would be for another fifteen minutes. The emporium, then, was scheduled to open tomorrow or the day after, but probably not if they had just found the owner...

* * *

"Charles M. Bucket, according to his cleaned-up passport," Dr. Robbins pronounced over the supine corpse in the morgue. "Country of origin, England. Age 22, good health – aside from being dead – and quite possibly the healthiest set of teeth I've ever seen. Not a single cavity, let alone any other sort of dental work. Not even caps." He pushed back Bucket's upper lip to show Grissom. Indeed, they were perfectly shaped and pearly white, the sort of teeth that toothpaste companies would kill to have smiling on one of their ads.

"What about the substance covering him when we found him?" Grissom asked.

"Here's where it started to get a bit strange," Robbins replied, "Sugar, cocoa, milk, all slightly turned. Rancid chocolate."

"Chocolate?" Grissom's brow furrowed.

Robbins nodded. "And I found more of it in his throat and lungs. Which makes the C.O.D…"

"Death by chocolate." Grissom arched an eyebrow at this.

"I'm putting out down as asphyxiation due to drowning, but yes. This man drowned – or was drowned – in liquefied chocolate. If I wanted to I could have my very own model of the upper respiratory system rendered in chocolate, though I doubt anyone would want to eat it. I sent a sample of it to Greg along with Mr. Bucket's clothes; maybe he can tell us the manufacturer, but don't hold your breath."

"I'd say a factory of some sort would have enough liquid chocolate to drown him in. A vat, maybe?"

"Probably. There aren't many chocolate factories in Las Vegas, though."

"Well, that should make this fairly easy, then."

"I found two more things that might interest you." He turned Charlie's head to the left, revealing a nearly hemispherical dent on the side of his head, a few inches back from the hairline. "He was hit fairly hard with something – judging from the size and shape of the wound I'd say maybe a billiard ball or something similar. Help me turn him." The two of them turned the corpse onto its side. "See, there's a matching wound at the base of his skull. I found a few chips of something red in the wounds, probably paint or similar from the weapon." Grissom could easily imagine an unknown attacker coming up behind the unfortunate Mr. Bucket, wielding a pool ball as an impromptu weapon – but…

"Chocolate and billards?" Grissom asked, furrowing his brow.

"So much for making this fairly easy. Sorry."

"Quite the opposite, actually. I've found that the more complicated the case is, the simpler the solution ultimately is."

"If you say so. We also found a couple of blond hairs and a few more of the white animal hairs on Mr. Bucket's clothes, preserved in the chocolate. Maybe the person who belongs to them can shed a little light on his demise. Nick's taking a look at them now."

"Good. If you find anything more, let me know."

Robbins nodded, and Grissom left the morgue.

* * *

Greg Sanders' eyes were positively dancing when Grissom entered the lab.

"I take it by your starry-eyed expression that we dohave a manufacturer for our chocolate sample?" Grissom asked.

"You take it correctly," Greg said, practically bursting with excitement, "See, chocolate contains basically the same ingredients, but each quality chocolatier has its own unique formula, its own way of mixing the ingredients, and so forth. And I can tell you right away that that sample was not your average cheapo Easter Bunny chocolate." With a quick shove of his sneakers, he launched himself in his swivel chair on a flat trajectory towards a desk drawer, from which he withdrew a large chocolate bar in a brilliant red wrapper proclaiming that it was a "Wonka Caramelicious Fudgytastic Bar". "It was Wonka chocolate." At Grissom's blank look, he added, "And I see that for once you have no clue what I'm talking about."

"I'm not much of a chocolate eater."

"Color me surprised." Greg rolled his eyes.

"Okay. Is this significant?" Grissom asked.

Greg raised his eyebrows in utter disbelief. "Only if you consider the finest chocolate in modern society significant. And this isn't just my opinion – after all, three billion chocolate-lovers worldwide can't all be wrong. Willy Wonka is a candy genius… maybe he's a few degrees off-plumb, if the stories are true, but he's an absolute genius nonetheless."

"What do you mean, 'off-plumb'?"

"You know, a little kookoo for Cocoa Puffs." Greg traced a circle around his ear to illustrate. "He's lived in his factory for maybe the last thirty years, pretty much alone, just making candy. It wasn't until ten years ago that he finally took on an assistant or something. That was insane. He had this contest, and the winner got to be his assistant in the factory. Some kid named Charlie, I think it was."

Grissom's attention had been flagging, but at the name he snapped back to attention. "Charlie?"

"Yeah. Charlie—"

"Bucket?"

Greg gave Grissom a long look. "I thought you didn't know anything about this."

"I do know that we have a young man in the morgue by the name of Charles Bucket," Grissom said gravely.

Greg was struck speechless at the news. He glanced at his chocolate bar, and then tucked it reverently away in the drawer.

"Now," Grissom continued, "I need you to find out how many factories in Las Vegas manufacture Wonka chocolate—"

"I can tell you that right away," Greg interrupted, still sounding a bit shaken, "There's only the one factory in the whole world, in England. It makes all the Wonka candy sold worldwide, not just the chocolate. Man, this _sucks_."

"Well, the fact that there is only one Wonka chocolate factory in the world actually simplifies things – since Mr Bucket was drowned in Wonka Chocolate, then our crime scene must be that factory."

"I was fourteen when the Golden Ticket Giveaway was held. Out of all the billions of Wonka bars sold worldwide, FIVE of them would have a Golden Ticket tucked in the wrapper. Every kid wanted to be one of those lucky five who got a free guided tour of the factory. Me included. And out of those five, only one kid would get the big prize. Charlie may well have been the luckiest kid on the planet. If what you're saying is true, then there's only one person who might have killed him – and I refuse to believe that Willy Wonka could have possibly killed his own apprentice."

"I can only follow the evidence, Greg, "Grissom replied mildly, with a hint of apology in his voice, "I can't help where it leads."

He patted Greg on the shoulder, then left. Greg looked morosely at the chocolate-stained suit laid out on the examination table.


	3. Cult of the Chocolate Bar

"Okay, people," Grissom announced to the CSIs gathered in the meeting room at the beginning of the Friday graveyard shift, "What do we know so far on the Bucket case? Nick?"

"Hairs found on the vic's clothing from two sources," Nick said, "The longer blonde hairs are human, probably female… almost definitely bleached. No skin tags, indicating normal shedding. The shorter white hairs appear to be from some member of the weasel family. If I were to guess, I'd say mink."

"I don't like guessing, Nick," Grissom chided.

"Okay, if I were to theorize, I'd say mink, since we don't get many weasels in Nevada."

"A bleached blonde wearing a mink coat?" Sara remarked dryly, "How many of _those_ do you think there are in Las Vegas?"

"Most of them probably wear faux fur, not that they'd admit it," Nick returned.

"Greg," Grissom said, ignoring the byplay, "What do we have on Bucket's other personal effects?"

"Two sets of prints on the keyring fob," the lab tech reported, "one set from our vic and the other set from an unknown, possibly female."

"Girlfriend?" Nick suggested, "Maybe Bucket was showing off his place?"

"If that happened there'd be one set of prints – his. I mean, unless he made her unlock the door, and that would be totally lame."

"Anything on the hotel keycard?"

"It's for a suite at theMGM Grandon the Strip. From what the desk clerk said, Charlie was staying the weekend in a place bigger than my apartment, and a hell of a lot more comfortable. Mints on the pillow, turndown service, and everything – all charged to Willy Wonka."

"Those rooms aren't cheap," Catherine said, "Either Wonka's loaded, or he doesn't know Charlie took his credit card."

"Well, he's only the inventor of the finest candies in modern history," Greg grumbled.

"Okay, we know where he was staying," Grissom said, steering the discussion back on track, "Any ideas why?"

"We might have a lead on why Bucket was in Vegas," Warrick said, "Nick and I lifted a footprint from a newspaper ad left at the scene, for a Wonka candy store opening this weekend."

"And this is pertinent how?" Grissom queried.

"Well, according to Greg, this Wonka guy never leaves his factory, and he probably isn't about to start for a store opening if he's really agoraphobic – I mean, Las Vegas is half a world away from London, right? So, he sends his assistant to take care of business, never dreaming that he'd get killed."

"Do you have an address for the candy store in question?" Grissom asked.

Warrick snorted. "Even if we didn't, we could just follow all the pilgrims."

Grissom raised an eyebrow. "Pilgrims?"

"The shop is scheduled to open this weekend. It's like a gathering of the Cult of the Chocolate Bar on the Strip."

"I need you and Nick to secure that area. If there's any evidence inside the shop, or even around the shop, I don't want it trampled by a horde of eager chocolate-lovers. Put your hand down, Greg, I need you here in the lab, not off at some publicity event." Greg slumped in his seat. "Sara, you help Greg with any evidence they find. That shop is not opening until we get to the bottom of this. Catherine, you and I will take a look at that hotel room tonight – see what Charlie might have left behind. All right everybody, you have your assignments. Let's see what we can find."

The meeting adjourned.

As Catherine left with Grissom, he suddenly touched her elbow.

"What?"

"How soon do you think you can be ready to go to London?" he asked without looking over at her.

She stopped short. "London!" she blurted, as though the forensic entomologist had suddenly invited her to have a couple of drinks at Coyote Ugly.

He finally glanced over at her. "This could potentially be an international case. At the very least, Bucket's next of kin should be notified – and I'd like to talk to Mr. Wonka, find out what part, if any, he has in all this."

"Grissom… you _hate_ chocolate."

"I don't see how that's relevant."

"Fine – Just, give me a couple of days to get everything squared."

"I can give you 24 hours. When the murder weapon is perishable, time is of the essence."

Catherine sighed. Once, one of her friends have given her a volume of Sherlock Holmes stories to read on her (exceedingly rare) days off, and Catherine had burst out laughing at the similarities she'd found between the Victorian detective and the CSI supervisor. In actual practice, however, Grissom's quirks made her want to laugh significantly less than they made her want to strangle him.

* * *

There was already a small village of sorts forming in the parking lot of what was destined to become a candy store. Sport utility vehicles, one- and two-man tents, and even people with just sleeping bags dotted the asphalt immediately surrounding the building (not including a few sleeping bags on the sidewalk), portending a lot of very disappointed people once they all found out that the store would not open on time.

"Jesus Christ," Nick breathed, "This looks like the opening of a Star Wars movie."

"The original trilogy, or the prequels?" Warrick asked.

"Episode One."

Captain Brass drew level with them. He was in charge of a small troop of LVPD officers brought in to help secure the shop. "All right," he said, "How do you want to do this, the loud way or the quiet way?"

"How about the 'not getting us all killed' way?" Warrick suggested.

In the end, it took a very diplomatic hour to clear the sidewalk (one camper decided he didn't feel very diplomatic at one in the morning and had to be taken away in a squad car after bloodying one officer's nose) and allow the CSI techs to approach the storefront unmolested. Any evidence that may have been on the sidewalk was probably spoiled by this point, of course, but there was nothing to be done for it now.

Nick cupped his gloved hands against the glass door and peered in while the police established a perimeter of yellow POLICE LINE – DO NOT CROSS tape. He clicked on his flashlight to see better, and scanned the shadowy display racks and shelves that looked like they already bore their cavity-inducing wares. He was about to turn back to Warrick when—

—a small shadow darted past—

—and was gone before he could pinpoint it with his flashlight.

"Hey Warrick, you got your Glock with you?" he asked his partner.

"Yeah, why?"

"Got movement inside. Might be a cat or something though, I couldn't tell. Just watch out."

He took the keys – detached from the brilliant purple fob, which was still in the lab – from his pocket and cautiously unlocked the deadbolt. He gently pushed the door open on its pneumatic hinge, startling himself badly when he wound up setting off an old-fashioned bell positioned above the door. He picked up his kit and stepped into the candy shop. It was full of a thick, watchful silence – like it was waiting for something. He shone the light around the selling floor, seeing more brightly-colored displays, most of them featuring images of the grinning, laughing purple ringmaster that looked more disturbing than inviting in the darkness.

"Looks clear," Nick finally decided, and Warrick entered the shop behind him with his kit.

"Radio if you need anything," Brass said, and went to help man the perimeter.

_Shuffle…_

"The hell was that?" Warrick suddenly burst out, shining his light into a corner. It was empty.

_Flap flap flap flap…_

Warrick's light followed the sound to a swinging door leading to the back, already settling back into stillness. He exchanged a glance with Nick.

"You said it was clear," Warrick snapped.

"I said it _looked_ clear," Nick retorted, "There's a difference." He snatched his two-way radio from his belt. "Hey Brass, we got a situ—" The radio overrode him with a cough of static, as if to say "Bad CSI! No candy for you!" Then, through the static, it started playing a perky little tune, sounding like a calliope on crack.

"Okay, I'm starting to get a little freaked out now…" Nick said uneasily.

Seconds later, Warrick saw the first little face peering at him from the shadows, and then all hell broke loose.


	4. Taunting the HappyFunBall

Grissom's cell rang just as he and Catherine pulled into the MGM Grand's lot. He pulled it out and flipped it open.

"Grissom." He recoiled slightly as a high-pitched shrieking apparently skimmed past the other end of the line.

"Grissom, it's Sara," he heard as he put the phone back by his ear, "Greg and I found out something weird with those shards from Charlie's head wounds."

"Good weird or bad weird?" he asked impatiently. "Weird" was not a scientific assessment he liked to hear, and we was starting to become concerned by all the noise on the line. LVPD cellular phones generally offered better reception than this.

"I'd say more like 'we don't know what the hell just happened' weird. I'll give you what we do know, though. When I analyzed the sample, it came up dextrose, corn syrup, maltodextrin, and traces of malic acid, calcium stearate, confectioner's wax…"

"Candy," Grissom concluded.

"Jawbreaker," Sara replied, "Probably the big kind that it takes a few days to get through, judging from the head wound."

"Well, there's nothing particularly weird about a killer using a handy weapon."

"Yeah… but that's when the mass spectrometer started going apeshit. It's been spitting fireworks since we finished ten minutes ago."

"What do you mean fireworks? It's sparking? It's in flames? Sara, you need to be more specific here—"

"I _mean_ it's spitting fireworks!" Sara shouted, "Purple starbursts, little whizzy whirly things, fountains of silver sparks—_shit_!" Another shrieking missile careened past. When Sara next spoke, she sounded like she was under a desk. "Greg, four other lab techs, and three cops haven't been able to put it out yet. It's like the Fourth of July all over again in here!"

"Are you okay?" Grissom asked with growing concern, "You ought to get out of there if it's getting dangerous."

"No, I'm okay for the time being." He heard a shuffling noise over the line, and supposed that Greg was taking shelter next to Sara. "Hang on, there's another part of this you should hear from the horse's mouth." She handed the phone off.

"Hi Griss!" Greg Sanders sounded more excited than afraid, which was impressive considering he'd already been in one lab explosion during his career.

"Greg, exactly what's going on over there?"

"Exactly what I thought might happen—the mass spectrometer found an element in the sample that confused the hell out of it."

"What element, Greg? Neither of you are making any sense." Grissom was nearing the end of what many considered to be almost Buddhic patience.

He could tell the young senior tech was grinning. "It's the same element I found in the samples of Wonka chocolate last night, but there's apparently a lot more of it in the jawbreaker. Or, I should say, the Gobstopper."

"Greg," Grissom said quietly, "I do not need to have had a long shift less than an hour in."

"It's what makes Wonka candy the way it is, Grissom. The chocolate and all the rest of it."

Grissom listened long enough to hear the next word from Greg's mouth, after which he snapped the phone shut and shoved it back into his pocket.

"What is it?" Catherine asked, noticing the dark cloud that had descended over her supervisor's brow.

"Greg has picked a hell of a time to play games with me," he growled, "I would have thought that he would at least be…" He shook his head. "Never mind. Let's take a look at Bucket's suite." He headed into the Grand's opulent lobby, a feat of architecture and decoration that made most hotels look like broom closets. "Honestly," he murmured under his breath, "Magic indeed."

* * *

Warrick and Nick dove for cover behind various shelves and displays in the face of a bizarre bombardment of taffy balls, licorice, and jawbreakers hurled at blinding speeds from the cover of shadows. Nick already had a knot on his temple where he'd received a glancing blow from what turned out to be a sort of candy buckshot, and Warrick had taffy caught in his hair. 

"Where's it coming from?" Nick shouted.

"Hell if I know," Warrick shouted back, "Looks like up th—holy shit…" Nick looked just in time to see Warrick dive after something that had just darted around the end of a shelf. "Gotcha! Ow! Hey! Knock it off, would ya?"

Nick got up in a half crouch to investigate, and saw that Warrick was holding onto what appeared to be a tiny person, even smaller than the people Nick knew preferred to be called "little people" – perhaps two feet tall, if one was exceptionally generous, and fighting furiously in Warrick's grasp like a leprechaun that has just been caught for its gold. He – for the prisoner certainly looked male – had a dark complexion, perhaps indicating Hindi descent (if one ignored the prodigious lack of height), and a head of black hair that stood in a strange sort of squiggle from the crown of his head. The name tag sewn onto his miniature coveralls identified him as "Oliver".

"Hey," Nick said, looking around, "The attack's stopped."

Indeed, it was again quiet in the candy store, until with a loud CRACK! Oliver slammed his forehead against Warrick's nose, squirming away while he was thus distracted. Nick followed Oliver's path across the floor, trying to see where he was going, but then noticed movement in many of the wall shelves. One by one, more of Oliver's people were materializing from the shadows – perhaps twenty in all. Nick slowly straightened up, speechless with bewilderment, for the little creatures all looked absolutely alike, though Nick hoped insanely that they all went by different names. They stared at him and Warrick so intently that Nick started feeling like he was in a Hitchcock movie.

"Warrick, you okay?" he asked.

"Yeah, I think so… I don't think it's broken, but _damn_ that little guy had a hard forehead!" Warrick dabbed at his bleeding nose.

"Could you do me a really big favor right now?" Nick asked, holding out his to the small tribe, "Don't… make… any… sudden… moves." He raised his voice slightly. "We're with the Las Vegas Police Department. We're investigating a murder." He stepped slowly out from behind the shelves and indicated the badge on his belt. "We're with the police. We're investigating a murder."

Warrick straightened up to see who Nick was talking to. "What the hell? Who are all them?"

"I think they live here," Nick said cautiously. He tried to pick out the one he knew to be Oliver and found he couldn't.

"Think they can help?" Warrick asked uncertainly. His nose had nearly stopped bleeding already.

Then the little creatures did absolutely the last thing either CSI would have expected them to do.

They began to sing.

_A horrible crime was committed here—_

_Our dear friend Charlie is dead, we fear!_

_Can you help us solve it fast?_

_The killer was somebody from his past!_

_She came in the door to see our friend_

_She wouldn't take no for an answer – then_

_He tried to remove her – she screamed and fought!_

_How little she has changed, we thought!_

_She told him, "All my riches, Charlie,_

_Simply don't mean anything!"_

_She told him, "All my riches, Charlie,_

_Are nothing to what your love could bring!"_

("Who was this lady, Gwen Stefani?" Warrick murmured to Nick.)

_Now we're nearly overcome with fright_

_Willy told us all to stay out of sight_

_But with Charlie gone what do we do?_

_We make the candy, we can't sell it too!_

_Such a tragic, tragic end_

_Was met by our second-dearest friend_

_(After Willy, but that is quite_

_Another tale for another night)—_

_We will help if we are able_

_To catch his killer and turn the tables_

_On a rotten child with a rotten soul_

_As black as a burned-out piece of coal_

_But first we hope you don't think us silly_

_If we ask that you please notify Willy?_

There was dead silence in the darkened store after the strange choir finished singing.

"Oh, Grissom's gonna _love_ this," Nick remarked dryly, "The only witnesses to the attack are Munchkins."

There was a tug at his pant leg. He glanced down into the upturned face of one of the little creatures – possibly Oliver. Maybe-Oliver beckoned him closer, and with a mental shrug, Nick hunkered so that he was as close to level with the creature as his Texan build would allow. This was not Oliver, he noticed – the little name tag read "Nigel". Nigel stared at him, apparently expecting something.

"We'll help," Nick said, "That's what we do, after all. Uh, listen, we're going to need to take a formal statement from you and the rest of the… you," he finished lamely.

"Oompa-Loompas," said Nigel, in a shockingly baritone voice that momentarily made Nick suspect that someone was playing a prank involving James Earl Jones.

"What?"

"We are Oompa-Loompas," Nigel clarified patiently, as though to a dense child.

"O-_kayyy_…" Nick said, straightening up and turning to Warrick. "All right… how we gonna do this anyway?"

"I'm still trying to figure out how to put this on my report," Warrick replied. To Nick's relief he looked every bit as confused as Nick felt. "You go tell Brass we've got witnesses. I'll… Loompa-sit."

"No, I think you should go explain this to him."

"Before or after I explain how I got taffy in my hair?"

"After. Just… just tell him the facts as we know them."

"Gee. Thanks a lot. You owe me big when we get back." Warrick headed out.

Nick sat cross-legged on the floor and looked at Nigel, who was still looking steadily as Nick.

"So," Nick said, "Seen any good movies lately?"


	5. Good Nuts

It had taken quite a bit to convince the concierge to allow Grissom and Catherine to examine Bucket's suite – it usually did, even when a case involved the sort of no-tell that charged an hourly rate. What happened in Vegas, the saying goes, likes to remain in Vegas. However, the death of a minor celebrity and the potential negative publicity such an event would bring to the MGM Grand went a long way to greasing the diplomatic wheels. As far as that went, Grissom was one of the most diplomatic men on the force, if only because he knew enough of the penal code to get his foot in many legal doors. Person-to-person, he was generally slightly less so. It was a running joke among the team that he got along better with Madagascar hissing cockroaches than he did with people. At least, people outside the department thought it was a joke.

"Excuse me!" The words came as sharp as a whiplash. "Are you _supposed_ to be here?"

Grissom and Catherine turned towards the speaker, a young blonde woman in an evening dress with a pair of strap-backed heels dangling from one hand – apparently deciding to turn in early at 1:15 in the morning. Catherine could sympathize – no matter how comfortable the shoe looked and felt in the store, anything with a high heel turned into a medieval torture device after a few hours.

"We're with the Las Vegas Police Department," Catherine said, showing her badge. She pulled out the photo of Charlie Bucket and showed it to the woman. "Have you seen this man around the hotel?"

The woman peered closely at the picture, and then smiled in recognition. "It's hard not to. My room's right next to his, and he's easy to pick out of a crowd anyway. Bright blue suit, you know."

"Have you heard anything strange coming from his room, Miss…?"

"Salt. Veruca Salt – and I've heard all the wart jokes, so don't even bother. As for any funny noises coming from his room – I didn't come to Vegas to stay in my room all night when the Cirque du Soleil is debuting their newest show. An old friend of mine managed to find a place in the troupe this year, and it just wouldn't _do_ for me not to come see her perform."

"How about in the last couple of days?"

"Not really, no. When I was in my room he was fairly quiet. Of course, you could probably set off a grenade in any of the rooms here and the only way they'd hear it outside would be if the balcony door was open."

"Okay. Is there a number where we can reach you if we have any more questions?"

"Well, I don't see what else I could tell you, but I'll give you my card." She reached into her handbag and pulled out a business card, handing it to Catherine. "My cell is always on."

Catherine glanced at the card. "SALT'S PEANUTS, New York City, NY," it announced in festive type, "We may be nuts, but we're good nuts!" At the bottom was a phone number, presumably Veruca's cell as promised.

"I do have one more question," Grissom spoke up as Veruca unlocked her hotel door.

"Yes?"

"Might I have the name of your friend in the Cirque?" He smiled in his quietly disarming way. "I enjoy the shows too."

Veruca smiled in return, clearly flattered by Grissom's interest. "Violet Beauregard. She plays the Oceanid Princess in the show – a hand-balancer and, without exaggeration, the most amazing contortionist you'll ever see."

"I'll be sure to check it out," Grissom replied amiably. Veruca nodded and vanished inside her room.

"I didn't know you dug contortionists," Catherine remarked after the door clicked shut.

"Not particularly, no," Grissom replied offhandedly, once again all business, "I've never even been to the Cirque du Soleil, to be honest."

"Then why the interest in Veruca's friend?"

"If Violet is an old friend of Veruca's, then there's a good chance they talked together at some point."

"Is Veruca a suspect?"

Grissom gave her a look of almost childlike curiosity. "Should she be?"

With that, he nodded to the concierge, who unlocked the door to Charlie's room. He tried to follow them in, but Grissom put up a hand to block him.

"It's best if you wait in the hall," he explained, "In case there's any evidence that would lead to a suspect." The concierge nodded in understanding and stayed outside.

"Tidy room," Catherine observed.

"Efficient maid service," Grissom replied grimly, examining the discouraging lack of wreckage, "They probably come in and tidy up at least once a day. Good for business, bad for evidence."

Hugging a wall, he made his way to the bathroom and peered in. "I got a shaving kit, unpacked. From the way his effects are lined up on the counter, it probably hasn't been used since he checked in." He scanned his eyes across the safety razor (Gilette), toothbrush (Oral-B), toothpaste (Smilex), and comb (Ace) lined up on the expansive vanity counter (marble, probably the genuine article) like members of a suicide cult waiting for the Kool-Aid to do its work.

"I got a laptop," Catherine reported from the bedroom. Grissom glanced up, seeing mainly Catherine's backside through the bedroom doorway as she bent over what may have been the laptop in question. Any other man might have paused to contemplate the continuing effects of her early career as an exotic dancer (and how beautiful a woman she still was, even approaching the dark and dangerous neighborhood that was her fortieth birthday), but instead Grissom entered the doorway in time to see Catherine's latex-gloved fingers fail to charm the laptop (which was an unlikely shade of purple) into giving up its secrets.

In response, a cheeky security program put up another graphic of the top-hatted ringmaster, who shook a finger chidingly at her. "Ah-ah-ah!" the laptop scolded in a tenor voice that was almost cartoonish in its squeakiness, "You forgot to say the magic word! GOODBYE!" And with that the laptop shut down.

"We'll send it to Data Recovery," Grissom reassured her, "They should be able to crack the password."

"I'll bag it," Catherine replied, clearly annoyed at being scolded by a laptop. As she did so, she looked around. "I don't see any signs of a struggle here."

"Do you see any other signs of Charlie Bucket?" Grissom asked.

She looked around the bedroom. "Well, there's the shaving kit you found in the bathroom, the laptop… Samsonite luggage in the corner." She wandered thoughtfully towards the wardrobe in the corner, and opened it to find six suits, in varying shades of brilliant technicolor, accompanied by six impeccably polished pairs of wingtips. "This guy had the fashion sense of Austin Powers."

"Who?"

"Never mind. It's not relevant." She examined each suit carefully. "No stray hairs, his or otherwise. Either he has a lint roller or these haven't been worn. We won't find anything on any of them."

"Bag one of them anyway. And a pair of the shoes, for the sake of completeness."

Grissom's cell phone chirped. He gave it a single apprehensive glance (he didn't want to have to go through that "magic" crap with Greg again) and answered it. "Grissom."

"Nick here. Warrick and I are on our way back from the candy shop."

"And?"

"And we found something we think you should see."

"That doesn't help me, Nick."

"Well, we found some witnesses actually hiding in the shop. Beyond that, I doubt you'd believe me."

Grissom pinched the bridge of his nose. He was starting to get a slight headache. "Nick, right now I am in the middle of searching Bucket's hotel suite for evidence. Catherine and I should be back to headquarters in an hour if we don't find anything. Is that quite all right with you?"

"Yeah. Sure thing. It's gonna take us a bit to get them all sorted out anyway."

"Whatever you say, Nick." He rang off.

"Problem?" Catherine asked, seeing his expression.

"It appears that certain members of the CSI Department are trying to play a bit of a prank on me. Let's finish the suite. I'm not going to give them the satisfaction of just walking into whatever stunt they have planned."

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, Captain Brass walked into Police Headquarters, followed by a long duckling trail of Oompa-Loompas. Another officer took up the rear, though he looked woefully unprepared should the Loompas decide to make a break for it and scatter. Brass knew people were staring. There was nothing he could do about it other than maintain his own appearance of dignity, no easy feat considering his immediate following. To their credit, the Loompas looked as somber as they had in the candy shop.

Fifteen minutes after _that_, Warrick had managed to record the names each Loompa went by (none of them had any ID so he had to take their word for it). He turned the small tribe over to the officers whose job it now was to sort twenty nearly identical Loompas into interrogation rooms to give separate statements. If they jibed, great. If they differed, something was wrong. If they were all absolutely identical, though, the police would have a little problem, namely a debate about whether the cloning process that produced Mini-Me was in fact possible.

Five minutes into that operation, a heated discussion ensued over which pink-clad Loompa was Betty and which was Nadine, which was settled soon after by the ladies in question themselves, who indicated that they were in fact Maxine and Gertie, and that _those_ two Loompas were Betty and Nadine, in some order. The officers confessed that they could see no difference, which made Gertie cry and have to be comforted by a female officer, who confirmed that the offending officers were sexist pigs and would be yelled at later.

Two minutes later, one officer excused himself to have a migraine in the sick room.

It took an additional twenty minutes to figure out the logistics of distributing twenty witnesses among four rooms for separate interrogations.

Fifteen minutes after that, Grissom entered HQ, trying not to look as annoyed as he felt. Nick was there to meet his supervisor.

"Now, before you go in to see the witnesses—" Nick started.

"Nick, I don't have time to play games right now. We are in the middle of a murder investigation, and I do _not_ appreciate you and Greg trying to play me for a fool."

Nick frowned. "What did Greg do?" Grissom sidestepped past him impatiently and continued on his way. Nick hurried to keep up. "Listen, there's something you should really know here—"

"What the hell happened to the lab?" Grissom stopped so abruptly that Nick nearly crashed into him. The mass spectrometer was half-melted, half exploded, and silver-white magnesium burns bubbled and streaked up the wall behind it and across the ceiling for about nine feet, like someone had set off the biggest Roman candle in the world. Greg acknowledged his boss with a slightly apologetic shrug as he cleaned up broken glass; thankfully the Plexiglas observation window was intact and Greg himself appeared unhurt. Not a bomb then. Thank God for small miracles.

"Listen, Griss, I _really_ think you should—"

But Grissom was off again. He hurried after, and managed to catch his supervisor's shoulder just before he entered the observation area that looked into all four interrogation rooms. Grissom turned sharply, and Nick drew back slightly under the force of the CSI's glare. Grissom didn't get angry often, but when he did, you knew it.

"Nick," Grissom said, "Before you say or do anything childish that could possibly compromise the integrity of a murder case, I want you to think _very_ hard about _what in the world is that_?" Grissom was now staring into one of the interrogation rooms, where an Oompa-Loompa (Elmer, if Nick recalled correctly, and he probably didn't) was sitting cross-legged on the table. Grissom's anger had, understandably, popped like a soap bubble.

"That's one of our witnesses," Nick explained "We found twenty of them still crewing the shop."

"Do they all look like that?"

"I… think you better see this for yourself. You're an evidence kind of guy, right?"

Nick took Grissom gently by the elbow and led him to the waiting room where two officers were supervising the remaining sixteen Loompas. As he pushed open the door, the Loompas got to their feet and looked up at the two CSIs expectantly.

Nick had seen a number of emotions in Grissom since he'd starting working for the Las Vegas Crime Lab. Flabbergasted was a new one, but it fit the open-mouthed CSI supervisor perfectly.

"Everything okay in here?" Nick asked the Loompas. With the synchrony of the Riverdance Irish dancing troupe, the Loompas crossed their arms across their chests and then lowered them back to their sides in a sort of affirmative salute.

Grissom looked sharply at Nick, who put his hands up in a warding gesture. "I can only explain as far as I know it, boss."

"You better do that. And _you_—" He pointed at the Loompas, who looked back at him like cats. "Um. At ease." The Loompas sat.

Grissom dragged Nick away for a debriefing.


	6. Viola, the Blue Faerie

"How's your head?"

Grissom glanced up at Catherine from where he had been sitting in the break room for the last half hour, nursing what was only a mild headache (despite what everyone was saying about migraines and aneurysms). In front of him was Nick's report on what had happened in the candy shop, which was tidily summarized thus: "Warrick and I arrived at the scene, but found that any evidence that might have been on the sidewalk had been compromised by bystanders. We entered the premises and discovered twenty individuals still within, who proceeded to bombard us with candy until we identified ourselves, at which time they ceased their attack and treated us to a statement by way of a musical number. Entire chorus detained for further questioning."

"You know," Grissom said, "Every time I think I've seen everything there is to see in Las Vegas…"

"You encounter shop gnomes. I know. Kinda makes you feel like you took a wrong turn and wound up in Oz."

"On the bright side, their statements agreed without seeming rehearsed."

"Unlike the 'musical number' Nick and Warrick say they got?"

"I'm still trying to figure that one out. Give me a day."

Catherine laughed. "I don't think even _you_ will be able to figure that one out."

"How are the background checks on Miss Salt and Miss Beauregard coming along?"

"I'm sure they're doing fine. Just relax. Nick's on primary – he'll make sure everything keeps on without us."

"You're right. We have a plane to catch. Is Lindsay…?"

"Staying with her aunt. Everything's taken care of."

"I just can't help thinking there's some element of this case I'm overlooking…"

* * *

Nick poked his head into the lab, where Greg had just finished cleaning up the last of the glass from the fireworks show.

"Hey Greg – you feel like getting out of the lab for an evening?"

Greg looked up, interested already – the lab still reeked of burnt sugar. "Sure! What's up?"

"You, sir, have a date with a contortionist tonight."

Greg blinked as he felt his mind rifling through all the possibilities of that statement. "I… _what_?" he finally asked, in the spirit of purely scientific inquiry.

Nick handed him a file folder. "Catherine and Griss met a woman named Veruca Salt last night. A glimpse into her background told us Miss Salt was—"

"One of the five finalists in the Golden Ticket Giveaway ten years ago!" Greg finished.

"Yeah. Should we have just asked you and saved the newspaper archive the trouble?"

"Sorry. Go ahead. I'm listening."

"Anyway, she mentioned an old friend of hers that she'd come to see at the Cirque." Nick tapped the file folder. "Violet Beauregard, though nowadays she goes by the stage name of Viola the Blue Faerie. I need you to confirm the Salt woman's story."

"Did you happen to read the news articles for about a week after the Chocolate Factory visit?" Greg asked, "I was following the whole thing – and apparently little Veruca was pretty steamed that she didn't win. Her dad waged a legal World War III on Wonka, citing emotional distress, saying Wonka had wild animals running loose and they'd attacked Veruca, that he'd made cruel remarks to his daughter and dumped her down a garbage chute—"

"Since you're the big expert on the matter," Nick cut in, "What's your opinion?"

Greg considered this. "I saw her on TV. She needed a good scare."

"In which case I'm sure you'll be extra careful to see if Violet's story matches Veruca's… right?"

"Sure. Diligence is my middle name."

"Great. Your ticket to the Cirque is in the folder."

Greg snatched open the folder and saw that this was indeed the case. It lay on top of a brief dossier of Violet, including a photo of a slender woman (who couldn't have been more than 90 pounds, soaking wet) in a gossamer costume, draped seductively against a prop of a galleon with a figurehead resembling a sea horse. Her face and hair were sapphire blue.

"Hell of a makeup job," Greg observed, mainly to himself.

"You've got an hour before the show starts," Nick said, "After that they don't let anyone in for any reason. You can probably make it if you run – but don't leave your brain behind when you leave, got it?"

"Got it."

Later, Greg reflected that it was quite possibly the most careful rush in history – and it still didn't prepare him for the meeting. Not by half.

* * *

The Cirque du Soleil is world renowned for the diversity and sheer artistry of the acts it chooses to be part of its shows, and those who run it are naturally unsatisfied with having the best of the best on their stage. Only the best of the best of the _best_ are good enough to work with the Cirque, and slackers are culled from the finished production as swiftly as a hangnail is trimmed from an irritated finger.

So, it came as absolutely no surprise to anyone who knew her that Violet Beauregard, title-holder in almost a dozen different categories by age 12 and perpetually unsatisfied with second place, would ultimately come to join the legendary troupe. The only time in her life she accepted a runner-up prize with good grace was after her tour of the Chocolate Factory, during which she had been turned into a blueberry twenty feet wide and subsequently given an emergency juicing.

This last bit of trivia was not in the dossier Greg Sanders had been given by way of background on her, and it might have explained a few things that he observed later.

At the moment, however, he was clinically observing her performance onstage, in a state of chiropractic sympathy. It was a good seat – Nick had assured him that the department's budget would be screwed up for the rest of the year thanks to that ticket, so he'd better enjoy it, dammit – and Greg could feel his own spine trying to realign itself as Viola the Blue Faery bent and twisted herself into interesting and uncomfortable looking shapes that, based on his high school biology classes, simply were not possible without risk of permanent deformity, paralysis, or death. He had, however, seen one of the shapes in a crime scene photo during a previous case in which the victim had been pushed headfirst down a curved flight of marble stairs and then, for good measure, been gnawed on by his pet Doberman Pinscher for a good hour before animal control could restrain the animal.

To say Viola was a contortionist was a bit crude, he thought as he watched her. She didn't _contort_ (for contortion implied pain or discomfort) – she flowed smoothly from one shape to the next, like the water spirit she was portraying in the storyline, as she balanced – usually only on one hand atop the hand-balancing blocks. He had, admittedly, seen women who could tuck their head between their knees – just never from behind. And he had never personally met any of them. In the case of at least one of them he had only Nick's assurance that she even existed.

Well, Nick wasn't going to be the one to meet Viola, Greg thought with a touch of smugness. The only thing that troubled him a bit was the fact that she wore the same blue makeup here as she had in the publicity photo in the dossier.

"My name is Greg Sanders," he said to the security officer after the show, "I'm with the Las Vegas Crime Lab. I need to speak with, uh, Viola." He showed his CSI identification.

The bouncer – who looked big enough to actually bounce Greg against the sidewalk if he wanted to – peered closely at Greg's ID. "What's this about?"

"I just need to ask her a few questions. It won't take long."

"All right – but if you're just another one of those perverts—"

"I'm not. I'm cool."

"—she'll break your neck herself. I think she's a black belt or something."

Greg frowned. "Karate? Judo, Jujitsu?"

"Yes."

Greg processed this answer. "Gotcha. Hands to myself. Totally."

"Follow me."

The bouncer led Greg to one of the dressing room doors and knocked on it. "Viola?"

"Yes?" came the answer from within.

"Some guy here to see you. Says he's with the police."

"No, I'm with the Crime L—" Greg protested.

"He wants to ask you a few questions."

There was a pause within. "Is he cute?"

Greg glanced sideways at the door, then back at the bouncer who was being asked to judge his cuteness.

"Meh. I guess," the big man finally said noncommittally, "He looks a little like Tony Hawk or something." Greg sighed.

"Let him in," said Viola.

The bouncer opened the door. Greg went to enter the dressing room – after all, he had the occupant's dubious blessing – and stopped short two steps later.

Viola was combing out her blue, shoulder-length hair. With the comb tucked between her toes. While balancing herself on the arms of the chair in front of the mirror, and arching her long legs back and over her head like the tail of a scorpion. Greg gaped, tilting his head sideways in astonishment.

"Hi!" the acrobat said brightly, "Come on in." Greg noted, in an obscure corner of his otherwise rather distracted brain, that she was chewing energetically on a bright pink wad of chewing gum, and that the inside of her mouth appeared to be blue as well. She indicated a chair near the door with her free foot. "Have a seat." Greg slowly sidled over to the chair and, after missing once, managed to sit. There was a patient pause. "Um… you wanted to ask me a few questions, you said?" She put the comb down on her vanity table, plucked a cloth from a basin of water with her toes (Greg's spine crackled in sympathy) and began to wash her face. The blue color did not come off. Greg was starting to suspect as well that her blue hair was not a wig.

"Abagabada?" was Greg's first question.


	7. Pretty Fly for a CSI or, Hot Stuff

Author's note: My readers may notice I am posting this a couple days early. Well, I'm leaving for a sci-fi convention tomorrow and I'll be gone the whole weekend, so I figured I might as well post this early. Enjoy!

* * *

Greg did not, in fact, regain his powers of coherent speech until Viola had finished her toilette (which left her every bit as blue as when she started) and uncoiled her spine, settling herself in a perfectly normal sitting position by the dressing-room table, crossing one knee delicately over the other, and tilting her head at him in a charmingly attentive pose. Then she tilted her head the other way, peering at him critically.

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" she said with a laugh, "Relax, already – I won't bite you or anything. You'd think this was the first time you'd been in the same room as a girl."

Greg had found in the past that attempting to consciously relax oneself in certain stressful conditions tended to have quite the opposite effect, so he was not entirely surprised that it didn't work this time, either.

"Do yo-u—" His voice cracked slightly and he cleared his throat. Suddenly his pulse was roaring in his ears, and he felt like he was going through puberty all over again. "Do you know a Charlie Bucket?"

"Not for a while now," she replied, "Not since the Chocolate Factory, anyway. I heard he got a pretty sweet deal, though, working as Wonka's apprentice. Why do you ask?"

"He's dead."

"Dead!" Viola's blue eyes widened in shock, and one hand flew to her mouth. "Dead how?"

"We suspect foul play."

"But that's stupid – who'd want to kill Charlie? I though he was a bit of a loser early on in the tour, but afterwards I looked back and thought he was kind of nice."

"What changed your mind?"

"I got juiced."

Greg blinked. "You mean… juiced as in… drunk?"

"Come on, I was _twelve_. I mean juiced as in what you do to a lemon to get the lemonade out."

"I'm… still not sure I follow." Greg had a very bizarre mental picture in his head right now.

"Okay, first off, if someone like Willy Wonka tells you not to chew a stick of experimental gum because not all the glitches were out of it, do what he says."

"It turned you blue?"

"It turned me into a blueberry," she replied, as casually as if this were a perfectly normal effect for untested chewing gum, "A really _big_ blueberry. And I think something happened when they juiced me. You know the stuff in lemons that makes them really sour?"

Greg nodded, at last on familiar ground. "Citric acid."

"Well, I think when they took me to the juicer they squeezed the sour stuff out of me, too."

"Oh. Well, that's… good?"

"And I was as flexible as a rubber band afterwards, so it was no big loss. Of course, I'm still blue – but I've turned that into a plus."

"What about the other kids on the tour? Have you been keeping up with them since?"

"A little bit. I heard Mike Teavee developed a morbid fear of televisions."

"How can you have a fear of televisions? They're everywhere."

"Well, you know that one girl in _The Ring_ whose friend got munched in the first scene?"

"Yeah?"

"And later on she was in the mental ward because she thought the TV was going to eat her?"

"I gotcha. I bet there's a story behind Mike's fear."

"Nothing a couple years of therapy couldn't cure. His dad bought stock in Wonka Chocolates soon after, so I bet it got _really_ exciting in the Teavee household later on." She waved a hand dismissively. "Mom liked to keep up with the beautiful people. Now that the Teavees are divorced and Mr Teavee is rich as hell she thinks she's got a chance with him. Whatever."

"Have you heard anything else?" Greg did enjoy hearing the gossip, but gossip wasn't going to solve a murder case.

"I understand Mrs. Gloop put Augustus on a severe diet after they got back to Germany. Last I heard he was the spokesman for powdered diet shakes in Europe."

"What about Veruca Salt? Keeping up with her?" This was the question he most needed an answer to.

Viola looked at him. "We've kept in touch – why?"

Argh. Too heavy-handed. Grissom was really the king of the subtle interrogations.

"We met up with her in Vegas," he explained, "Apparently she's been coming to watch you perform. Not that I blame her – you're amazing up there." He grinned.

She smiled in return, clearly flattered by his compliment. _Score one point for the lab rat_.

"Yeah – she likes to be seen at a big show like the Cirque – doubly so if she can say that she actually knows one of the performers."

"Has she been coming to the Cirque all week?"

"Well, ever since she inherited her daddy's peanut business she's certainly rich enough to. The thing is…" She trailed off and stopped.

"What thing?" Greg prompted.

"Never mind. It probably isn't important."

"One thing my boss always taught me, no clue is ever unimportant." He hoped he looked and sounded serious enough to convince her.

"Well, the funny thing is, I didn't see her in the audience on the fourth."

"Well, something like that draws a crowd, right? Especially on the Fourth of July."

"I didn't just miss her," Viola replied sharply, "You don't 'just miss' people sitting in the first row. Especially if it's the same seat every night."

"And if they make a point of being seen?"

"Exactly! I bet you have to deal with the bourgeoisie every day."

Greg thought of all the DNA samples he'd processed over the years while holed up in his lab very far away from what Viola called the Beautiful People. "Yeah, sort of."

"So, is there anything else you'd like to know? I want to help any way I can."

_Okay, Sanders, play it cool. You're about to Ask For Her Phone Number._ "I don't have any other questions right now… is there a number where I can reach you in case anything else comes up?"

"Well, I could give you my manager's pager…" She smiled. "Or you could just leave a message on my cell."

Greg experimented in consciously not sweating as he replied, "Your cell would be good."

"All right." She found a pen, and then glanced around briefly. "Do you have something to write on?"

He stood up, patting his pockets in the strange Macarena of one who has misplaced his keys, but failed to locate a notepad. Of all the things not to bring along…

"Oh, for heaven's sake. Here." She grabbed his wrist and wrote ten digits on the back of his hand in hot pink gel pen. "There. You can write it down properly when you get back to the police station, okay?"

Greg gazed at the phone number that now graced his hand with something akin to wonder. He valiantly did not cheer, though in his mind he was performing an endzone dance. "Th… thanks," he stammered, "Um. Have a good evening, then."

He made it into the car and shut the door before he let out a whoop of victory. The Tahoe was well-insulated, so that anyone looking in from outside saw only a silent pantomime of the one-man victory party going on in the front seat.

The party was cut short, however, when Greg felt a deep, vibrating shockwave jolt the floorboards of the vehicle. When he looked around, he distantly saw the distinctive red glow of fire a fair distance down the Strip. The jolt had been an explosion!

"Shit," he muttered under his breath, as he got the car started and peeled out towards the scene. Steering with one hand, he dialed his cell with the other.

"This is Greg Sanders of the Crime Lab!" he shouted into the phone, "I'm en route to the site of an explosion on the Strip – I need to talk to Captain Brass immediately! Jesus—!" He jerked the steering wheel to avoid a collision with an SUV. When he'd reached the other side of the othervehicle, he caught his first glimpse of the scene. "Shitshitshitshitpleaseno…"

But there was no mistaking the charred, slightly canted sign in front of the flaming wreckage, with its jolly image of the familiar purple ringmaster that was Willy Wonka.

"Brass here," Greg distantly heard the gruff police captain through his cell. He felt sick and didn't really want to respond.

"Captain…" He managed to croak, "The Wonka shop has exploded. I'm coming up on the scene now. Send fire crew, ambulances, paramedics, everything you got. We… we probably got injured. There were a lot of people camped out in the parking lot." He finally pulled into the lot and swallowed hard.

"I'll send Nick and Sara out to take over for you, okay? Just stay put."

"Yeah, that… that would be good."

He clicked the phone shut and let it drop to the seat, wondering, through a fog of shock, who would possibly be twisted enough to firebomb a candy store.


	8. New Developments

Grissom and Catherine arrived in London and discovered a few things in succession. First, it was much later than it ought to be. Jet lag – no big surprise, and it would certainly prove to be no fun as well. After all, they'd just crossed6 time zones between Las Vegas and London. To Catherine's intense irritation, Grissom looked as though jet lag would be no problem for him – but then, he'd managed to sleep on the plane. The second, more pleasant, discovery was the presence of a handful of detectives from Scotland Yard to greet them. One of them, a handsome, dark-haired man, was holding a large sign reading GRISSOM. Brass had, apparently, been able to make arrangements through the FBI for London cooperation.

"Dr. Grissom? Miss Willows?" inquired the sign-bearer as they approached him. His speech was flavored with the lightest hint of an Irish brogue.

"Detective Pierce," Grissom replied, extending a hand to the Englishman, who shook it. "It's good to know we have local help on this end."

"I only have the story third-hand at this point," Pierce replied, "but it sounds like a nasty bit of business all around. We can talk about it at greater length back at the Yard. My men will get your luggage for you."

"I'm interested in having a word with Wonka," Grissom said as he and Catherine followed Pierce through the concourse.

"Truth of the matter is, so would we," Pierce replied, "But the man's locked himself up tighter than Howard Hughes. He lives in that big factory, you know, never goes outside. Hard man to catch hold of."

"Have you tried calling him?" Catherine asked.

"Only listed number goes to a switchboard at the factory – no direct line."

"Well, certainly he must have a secretary or some sort of assistant," Grissom suggested, "To manage his calls, his appointments—"

"Her name is Doris – charming woman, to judge by her voice over the phone – but he's never available. No appointments, no inspections, no visits, no tours—"

"Except for ten years ago."

"Except for ten years ago, yes." They reached a sleek black sedan and climbed in. Pierce started the car and pulled out of the lot.

"And since ten years ago?" Catherine prompted.

"Since the tour ten years ago, the man might as well be a ghost."

Grissom's cell rang. "Excuse me for a moment, Detective." He pulled out his phone and snapped it open. "Grissom here… Hi, Nick, what's up?" He listened for a moment to the tinny voice over the cell. "You know, the last time someone described a situation as 'apeshit', I found an exploded mass spectrometer in the lab and a bunch of gnomes in the interrogation rooms." Two seconds later: "It _what_? Is anyone hurt?"

"What happened?" Catherine asked, instantly on the alert.

Grissom covered the mouthpiece. "There was an explosion at Wonka's Candy Emporium."

"_Shit_," Pierce breathed. "When?"

But Grissom paid him no attention. "Nick, I'm glad you told me. Just make sure that you get as many witness statements as you can. And be careful." He reached up to click off the phone, but hesitated. "What was that? Chanting? What were they saying?" He listened for a moment. "Good. You do that. Let me know if you find anything out." He clicked off the phone.

"What's going on?" Pierce asked.

Grissom didn't answer right away; Catherine recognized one of his deep meditative states and knew better than to try to interrupt him. After several long minutes, he finally glanced up at Pierce.

"I think I'd like to speak with Mr. Wonka as soon as possible," he said reflectively.

Pierce gave the American a slightly exasperated look. "I _told_ you, Dr. Grissom, none of us has been able to get in touch with him. The furthest I've gotten is speaking with Doris."

"Then I guess I'll have to talk to Doris," Grissom replied amiably.

Pierce glanced at Catherine, who only shrugged to indicate she knew as much about Grissom's plans as Pierce did.

* * *

Dawn was just breaking over Las Vegas by the time peace once again reigned over the disaster area that had once been destined to be a candy shop. By some miracle, of the fifty or so people camped within the blast radius, only three had been killed and a dozen taken to the hospital. Brass had finally left off browbeating the officers who had been in change of maintaining a secure perimeter (they swore no one had got past them all night), and Sara and Nick were finishing up inside. The new perimeter was, of course, far wider, extending to the edges of the parking lot.

Greg sat on a curb at the edge of the lot, still a bit shell-shocked. To his credit, he'd only thrown up once and that was due to the charred smell of third-degree burns, but he still couldn't reconcile the fact that someone had actually _blown up_ a candy store. Not just any store, either, but what would have been the first Wonka Emporium outside of England in thirty years. He'd helped out, of course, him and a few of the other campers – he'd checked people for injuries, signs of life, and so forth, kept people still who might have broken bones or spinal injuries, and managed to wait until the paramedics had arrived and politely shooed him away before he wobbled into the bushes and lost his dinner. He would have ultimately sucked as emergency personnel, but he though he did okay for a first-responder.

"Hey."

Greg glanced up to see Sara offering him a cup of coffee. He took it and sipped – it was somewhat less than scalding hot, but room temperature was better than nothing. "Thanks," he whispered, as Sara sat beside him

"The EMTs say you might have saved a couple people," Sara said quietly, "Maybe prevented a few injuries from getting worse."

"Didn't have to happen," Greg replied, "Willy Wonka makes candy. He'd never hurt anyone."

"Looks to me like someone really wants to hurt him, though," Sara observed.

"Someone wants to _destroy_ him," Greg corrected her.

"For what it's worth, looks like the place was secure. Front door locked and guarded, nobody saw anyone… looked like the back door was still on the deadbolt, so whoever did this couldn't have gone through there." She snorted sourly. "Unless they could fit through a mail slot or something." Greg looked sharply over at her. "… What?"

"Say that again."

"I said the place was secure."

"After that."

"The back door was on the deadbolt?"

"After that."

"What? You're not making sense – nobody could have gotten in."

But Greg was already gone, running towards the rear of the charred building. Sara had no choice but to follow.

By the time Sara caught up to him he was crouched by the back door, which had buckled under the force of the blast. He was peering very hard at the steel flap that covered the mail slot.

"Did anyone dust here?" he asked without looking up.

"Why?" Sara asked, now badly confused by Greg's behavior.

"Just… tell me. Did anyone dust the flap?"

"No… but—"

"Got your kit?"

"Greg, what am I looking for here?"

"Sara… I need you to give me the benefit of the doubt. If there's nothing there, I'll go back to headquarters and get some sleep, because God knows I need it right now. But _please_, Sara… I promise I'll explain later. Just trust me."

Sara looked at Greg for a long time. With his eyes ringed with dark circles from trauma and lack of sleep, he looked a little deranged, and she knew he was in no state right now to be making sense, especially if he was saying what she thought he was saying.

"Just answer my question," she said.

"Fingerprints," he said.

She knew she shouldn't, but she went and got her kit, pulled out the soft brush and jar of powder, and dusted the mail flap with practiced swirls of the brush. She narrowed her eyes at what was showing up, and kept brushing. Finally she lowered her brush and sat back on her heels.

"My God," she said.

There was no mistaking it. Perfectly outlined by the powder was a fingerprint… but she had never seen a print two inches long and a quarter inch wide.


	9. Chess with the Queen

"That print must have been warped by the explosion," Sara reasoned, "You saw the door."

"You've been collecting evidence longer than I have, Sara," Greg replied, "What does your gut tell you?" His fingers were dancing across the keyboard of a computer terminal in the lab as he searched the newspaper archive. "Time to set the Wayback Machine to January and February 1995… Mike Teavee… Search." He clicked on the appropriate button on the screen. While the program searched, he turned to Sara. "Well?"

She thought about the elongated print they'd found on the mail flap. There was anatomically no way that a finger could be that long, barring an episode of Ripley's or the X-Files. And yet, the print didn't look distorted or smudged at all…

The computer chirped at them. On the screen were a handful of hits.

DETROIT BOY FINDS FOURTH GOLDEN TICKET, the first one read, quantifying it with the subtitle, "'It Was a Piece of Cake,' says young Mike Teavee."

CHOCOLATE FACTORY OPENS DOORS FOR TOUR, proclaimed the second one, "Five lucky children offered historical opportunity to see inside fabled factory."

CHARLIE BUCKET WINS GRAND PRIZE, screamed the third one, "… but what of the other children?" This one came with a link to a jpeg. Greg clicked on it, and the computer obediently showed them a copy of the picture that had accompanied the article in the London Times.

Sara frowned at the photo. "Something must have gone weird when they scanned it," she said, "Those two kids on the end are all messed up, see?"

"I don't think they are," Greg said carefully.

"Well, look – she looks all blue and he's all stretched out."

"But look at their parents. They're fine."

"You mean that _isn't_ a scanning error?"

"'Witnesses were puzzled by the state of the four children who exited the front door of Willy Wonka's legendary chocolate factory in the early afternoon hours of February second,'" Greg read, "'Especially the curious condition in which Violet Beauregard and Mike Teavee had emerged. Miss Beauregard was the most peculiar shade of blue, and Master Teavee was over ten feet tall, having apparently been stretched like taffy by some apparatus. Their respective parents had no comments to offer, and they declined requests for interviews.'"

Greg looked up at Sara. "Now do you believe me?"

"But that's… impossible!" she protested, "There is no way to stretch a human being to twice his normal height without killing him!"

"And there's no way to make a Gobstopper that lasts forever," Greg returned, "And there's no such thing as little gnomes running a chocolate factory. And there's no way candy could make the mass spectrometer go haywire all over the lab. And—"

"Okay! I get it already! What do you want me do say to you, Greg?"

"Just tell me you're willing to believe in magic just long enough to help track down a twelve-foot-tall man."

Sara rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands, then raked her fingers through her shoulder-length hair. "This is going to come back and bite us during the Crime Lab's next audit, you know," she said.

"Not if we can get pictures to prove it," Greg grinned.

"I only have one last problem," Sara said, "A twelve-foot tall man doesn't fit with what we have so far. Our witnesses didn't see anybody like that – and they seem reliable enough that they would have remembered it."

"I know," he said, gloomily, "And I can't see anyone like that wearing a mink coat in July for the hell of it. He might have come into the picture later."

"Or the print might be a coincidence."

"We'll know once we ask him – and I'd like to find out what Veruca Salt was doing last night, too."

* * *

"Hello, my name is Dr. Grissom, with the Las Vegas Crime Lab. Is this Doris?"

"Only half an hour on hold," Pierce remarked, "She must be in a good mood today."

"No, I'm not a medical doctor… I'm a forensic scientist, since you asked."

"What sort of background do you have on Charlie Bucket?" Catherine asked.

"Good kid, basically," Pierce said,"Never got in anybody's way. Poorer than dirt, though. But by all accounts he was an angel. Good heart, that sort of thing."

"Any brothers or sisters?"

"Only child. Raised by his mum and dad. All four grandparents lived with them, all in a house you couldn't swing a cat in. The grandparents have since passed, but I think both his parents are still alive."

"Is Mr. Wonka available today?" Grissom asked. He was on a desk phone rather than his cell.

"I'd like a chance to speak with them, to let them know what's happened," Catherine said.

"That'll be a problem," Pierce said.

"Why's that?"

"Same reason it's so deucedly hard to talk to Wonka. See, once Charlie came on as his assistant, Wonka had the whole family moved into the factory – house and all. I mean, they go out once in a while, to get groceries and the like…"

"No talkee Wonka, no talkee the Buckets."

"Pretty much."

"No, I'm afraid six years from next Tuesday is not okay for me," Grissom deadpanned with deceptive calm, "This is rather an important matter, Doris. Yes, more important than coming up with a new flavor of taffy that doesn't explode in the mouth – but I certainly appreciate his efforts in that matter, and I do appreciate his need for solitude while he irons out the wrinkles."

Catherine exchanged a glance with Pierce, who shrugged. "Lord knows what goes on in there these days," he said.

"Well, I know how hard it is to make progress in difficult projects," Grissom said to Doris, "So if you would just take down a message for him to call me as soon as he has a free moment?" He gave the number at Scotland Yard, then added, as if by way of an afterthought, "And be sure to let him know that the new Wonka Emporium in Las Vegas was firebombed sometime last night." He jerked the receiver away from his ear as Doris shrieked loud enough for both Catherine and Pierce to hear her. It was a brief exclamation, probably something in the "WHAT!" category, and presently Grissom put the receiver back to his ear. "Sorry, what? No. No, he wasn't. I'm sure. Yes, I'll hold."

He glanced at Catherine and Pierce with his brows raised in a look of quiet satisfaction, like a cat who has just drunk a saucer of fresh milk.

"That man could talk a bomb out of exploding," Pierce remarked quietly.

"Not always," Catherine conceded.

"Tomorrow afternoon at two?" Grissom glanced at his watch, which was the sort that automatically reset itself to the local time zone. "That should be fine. Thank you very much for your help, Doris. The Las Vegas Police Department appreciates it." He hung up the phone.

"Dr. Grissom, I quite think I have finally seen everything," Pierce said, "Just how the _hell_ did you manage to do what my entire department, five factory inspection departments, 300 representatives from various religious groups, and two Scout troops failed to do?"

"I play chess," Grissom replied, "And now, if you don't mind, Miss Willows and I have had a long flight and would like to get some sleep before meeting with Mr. Wonka tomorrow.

Pierce could only shake his head, chuckling in disbelief, as the two Americans left.


	10. Chocolate, with a Dash of Salt

The Wonka Chocolate Factory had been a veritable monument when it was built over thirty years ago, and even though London had grown up hopefully around it since like fawning groupies aspiring to the fame of a beloved rock star, it still dominated the skyline for five city blocks in every direction. Countless smokestacks punctuated the roof, lazily oozing white smoke into the atmosphere, while the buildings stacked below them promised the sort of mind-bogglingly huge factory floor space that would certainly be a bitch to search, if it came to that. The whole thing was surrounded by walls thirty feet high, a fortress of the Lord of Chocolate. Presently the wind shifted, and Grissom, Catherine, and Pierce were gently caressed by the spicy-sweet smell of brewing chocolate. Catherine sighed in olfactory ecstasy, and Grissom glanced at her curiously.

"I could stand here all day as long as the wind kept up," she confessed, with a hint of embarrassment.

"Catherine," Grissom said mildly, "It's only chocolate. Try to stay objective, please?"

"Scrooge," Pierce grumbled, "Let the woman have her moment."

"I just don't see what the big deal is," Grissom explained, "It's been well established that the sensation of pleasure that comes from eating chocolate is nothing more than a chemical reaction that produces endorphins. There's nothing… 'magical' about it at all. Wonka is a man, not a magician." With that he walked up to the gates and pushed the intercom buzzer.

"Do you have an appointment?" said a female voice a few feet above his head. He stepped back to regard the videoscreen that had just come on. A surveillance camera peered glassily at them from just above the monitor. And framed in the monitor was the monochrome image of yet another Oompa-Loompa, identical to the others save that she was wearing a suit and a strand of pearls with matching earrings. Grissom raised an eyebrow, and then smiled

"Doris, I presume?" he greeted her, then flipped open his ID and showed it to the camera. "Gil Grissom with the Las Vegas Crime Lab – we spoke on the phone earlier. This is my colleague Catherine Willows, and this is Detective Pierce with Scotland Yard. We have an appointment to see Mr. Wonka."

Doris nodded slowly, her expression never changing. "Just a moment while I open the gates for you. Detective Pierce will wait outside - Mr. Wonka doesn't like detectives much." The monitor went blank. There was a dull _clank_, followed by the clunkety-clunkety-clunkety of gears working very hard to open the huge gates. Catherine offered Pierce an apologetic look, which he answered with a shrug.

"Never managed to get in before this, why should he change now? I'll wait outside the front door. I expect a full report after, though, just so you understand."

They started through the gates, which looked as though they could very well close behind them and trap all three of them in there forever if Wonka so wished..

"You'd think he was keeping Godzilla in here," Catherine said as they entered the vast courtyard, lined on both sides with vibrant red Wonka trucks like sentries.

"Nope," Pierce said, "Just his dream."

The reached the steel doors that led into the factory, and Grissom was just raising his hand to knock when one of them was snatched open from within by one of the most shocking apparitions either Vegas CSI had ever encountered, though to be honest the competition for that honor was fierce in Sin City.

* * *

_Meanwhile..._

"Wait – what?" Warrick asked into the phone, "When?"

"What is it?" Sara asked.

Warrick put his hand over the mouthpiece. "Veruca split this morning."

"Shit."

"Well, did she say where she was going?" Warrick asked the concierge on the other end of the line. Then, to Sara: "Find out where 'home' is for her, could you?"

Sara flipped through Grissom's notes, which included the business card Veruca had given him. She picked up the card and glanced at it. "My guess would be New York."

"Okay, thanks for your help, ma'am." He rang off with the hotel.

"Fortunately, she was helpful enough to give us her cell." She handed the card to Warrick, who immediately started dialing. He paced as it rang. Finally someone picked up.

"Hello?" said a woman's voice.

"Hello, is this Veruca Salt?"

"Speaking, who's this?"

"My name is Warrick Brown with the Las Vegas Crime Lab. We'd like to ask you a few more questions about Charlie Bucket."

She sighed impatiently. "Look, I already talked to your people."

"Yeah, about that… funny how you didn't mention that you knew him from before – unless you forgot about the Golden Ticket Giveaway."

"Don't be stupid," Veruca snapped, "That was ten years ago. I'm totally past that by now."

"All the same, we'd like to ask you a few more questions on the matter."

"Well, I have a business to run in New York. I don't have time to answer a few more questions on the matter, and I'm certainly not about to come all the way back to Las Vegas just because you say so."

Warrick grimaced. "It would really be easier on all of us if you just cooperated."

"Don't you _dare_ threaten me. I know how people work. Ever since I inherited Daddy's business, everyone's been trying to dig up dirt on me to smear the Salt name. Well, I'm not about to participate in this farce. I know my rights. Any questions you want to ask, you can direct to my lawyer."

Warrick scribbled down the name and number, and afterwards had never been so relieved to get off the phone with anyone in his life.

"Jesus," he said, cramming his visceral reaction to the entire conversation into that one word.

"Didn't go well?" Sara asked.

"I might need a crucifix if we manage to get her back here. She lawyered up so fast I think I got whiplash."

Sara grinned. "Then Brass is _really_ going to enjoy extraditing her back to Vegas."

* * *

Looking at Willy Wonka was like almost like looking like some sort of confection on two legs. He was tall and lanky, made even taller by the addition of a black top hat which offset his burgundy suit in an Elegant Gothic sort of way. His brown hair (_chocolate_ brown, Catherine couldn't help thinking) was shot with streaks of silver and framed his face in a vaguely disorienting pageboy bob. The portion of his face visible below his almost bug-eyed dark glasses was shockingly pale – what Greg might have called a "hacker's tan". Aside from that particular piece of real estate, Wonka was entirely covered, shielded from the outside world by every means possible, including a pair of dark purple gloves that Catherine was surprised to see were made of rubber or latex. A germophobe, maybe.

"Good morning!" he chirped at the investigators with a disquietingly broad grin, baring the sort of perfect white teeth that Grissom had seen in the mouth of the late Charlie Bucket. "You said on the phone that you'd come and now you're here, though it certainly took you awhile. You're pretty," he added to Catherine, apropos of nothing, but then continued unabated, "Come in, please, I don't get visitors very often, but that's why I usually keep the gates locked, to keep them out. Ha ha ha!." He turned sharply and vanished inside, leaving Grissom and Catherine no choice but to follow. Catherine offered Grissom an uneasy look, which he answered with a shrug.

They found themselves in a rather industrial-looking corridor, lined on both sides with utilitarian doors. The floor was polished to a mirror-shine, and their footsteps echoed hollowly.

"Just toss your coats anywhere you like, someone will get them," Wonka prattled on without looking back.

"We don't have any coats," Catherine protested.

The chocolatier stopped in his tracks and looked back at them as if the possibility had never occurred to him.

"It's the middle of July, Mr. Wonka," Grissom informed him patiently.

"Oh! Well that would explain it, wouldn't it?" Wonka smiled, satisfied by the solution to that mystery.

"Do you have an office where we can talk to you?"

"Well, this place seems as good as any to talk to me, which of course you already are – which only proves my point," Wonka replied briskly.

"I see that," Grissom said, conceding the point, "But I think you might want us to talk someplace a bit more… private."

Wonka tilted his head in almost kitten-like curiosity at Grissom's grave tone. He took off his sunglasses at last, revealing brilliant violet eyes that sparkled like a child's, even though according to their notes so far Wonka himself must have been at least fifty years old.

"Mr Wonka," Catherine finally said, "Do you know a Charlie Bucket?"

Wonka brightened. "Oh yes! Charlie's my assistant, though you can't talk to him right now, since he's not here. Nope – not anywhere in all of England. I sent him to Las Vegas in the States so he could oversee the opening of a specialty shop, and I expect him back in a few days." His eyes flickered back and forth between the two investigators for a moment, and his smile slipped a notch. "Er… why?"

"We're with the Las Vegas Police Department, working alongside the FBI," Grissom explained, "Mr. Bucket was discovered several days ago in the Nevada Desert, a few miles outside of Las Vegas." He took the postmortem photo of Charlie from his pocket and handed it to Wonka.

The chocolatier frowned. "That's really not a very good picture of Charlie – why he looks almost d…" He broke off suddenly. He looked at Catherine, and deep in those vibrant violet eyes she saw his world crumble. It was like watching a high-ride building implode, a common enough occurrence in Las Vegas. "I see," he said in a very small voice, "That's… that's very sad… I…" His voice broke. His lip started to quiver, and his eyes filled, then overflowed. His knees wobbled, and the two CSIs each took an arm and guided him to a seat on the cold linoleum, where he wept like a child.


	11. At the Factory

Author's notes: Hi, I'm finally updating! I moved into my own apartment this week, so things were a little bit crazy there, but hopefully I'll be updating regularly again! Yeah, sorry about Willy, but they had to tell him eventually...

* * *

Willy Wonka's unexpectedly extreme reaction to the death of his apprentice caught the two investigators momentarily off-guard. They had seen the gamut of grief in their years in the LVPD, from numb shock to enraged disbelief, and a much smaller spectrum in cases where an employer was informed of the loss of an employee. To say that Wonka's tears fell outside the latter boundaries was an understatement.

Something about it that Catherine could not quite identify sparked her natural maternal instinct and, even though Wonka was easily ten years her senior, she moved to put a comforting arm around his burgundy shoulders. Abruptly, she found herself blocked by Doris, the two-foot-tall valkyrie who, sensing her employer's distress, had immediately moved to prevent any further upset and put herself between Wonka and Catherine, glaring at the latter in silent reproach.

"It's okay," Catherine told her experimentally, "I'm a mom, and… right now he looks like he could use one."

Doris narrowed her eyes suspiciously at Catherine, and then ventured a glance at her boss, who was still inconsolable. She gave her one last warning glance – _You be careful with him, woman_ – and stepped aside. Catherine offered the gesture of comfort again, putting her arms around Willy Wonka and letting him weep onto her shoulder until the sobs subsided into hiccups and then into silence – though she did notice that he kept his arms folded up between them as if to protect himself from her.

"What's this I hear about Charlie being dead?" Doris accused Grissom, "You said he wasn't in the blast!"

"And he wasn't," Grissom replied, feeling a little queasy after observing what the news had done, "He was killed a few days before. I'm very sorry for your loss, Doris. And yours, Mr. Wonka."

Wonka straightened up from the damp spot on Catherine's shoulder. Though his eyes were very red, his voice betrayed no evidence of the previous display of emotion. "Oh bother," he said sharply as he quickly removed his latex gloves, tossed them over his shoulder, and tugged on a fresh pair (these were apple green), "You do realize that my candy is going to taste absolutely _hideous_ now. I hope you two are satisfied."

Grissom arched an eyebrow at this abrupt change in demeanor.

Wonka levered himself back upright on his brilliantly colored walking stick, forcing the investigators to get up as well.

"And Charlie was going to help me with a new type of cinnamon candy that would let the little ones breathe little fireballs – not too big, mind you, wouldn't want to set the drapes on fire – that he'd read about in a Harry Potter book," the candymaker rambled on, like a truck with no brakes.

"Mr. Wonka," Grissom said.

"He has the most amazing ideas for new candies, you know. He has a mind for candy, you see. He has what the Loompas call 'chocolate in the heart', which of course is the highest compliment that they could pay to anyone…"

"Mr. Wonka?" Grissom repeated patiently.

"Since he started on at the factory he's come up with 35 new flavors of taffy, do you know that? Oh, I can tell you that Jelly Belly raised a bit of a stink about that, but there wasn't really anything they could do, because we came up with buttered-toast-flavored before they did—"

"Mr. Wonka!"

"You hush up!" Wonka retorted, as sharply as a whip, "Can't you see I'm electrocuting here?" There was a strange silence then, during which Doris closed her eyes and shook her head, then tugged at Wonka's trouser leg. He crouched down to her level, and she whispered something in his ear. He popped up again like a jack-in-the-box. "Allocuting. I'm allocating. My bad."

"Actually, allocution is when you confess to a crime in front of a court," Grissom said calmly, "And in this case Catherine and I just need to ask you a few questions that might help us find out who killed Charlie."

Wonka quieted immediately, appearing to search for a compromise between extreme high and extreme low. He settled on polite helpfulness, and offered the investigators a queasy smile, but appeared not to have the heart left to make it dazzle as before.

"I'm also going to need to tell his family," Catherine said, "Do the Buckets still live in the factory?"

"They live in the tilty little house in the Chocolate Room," Wonka informed her quietly, and the absence of his previous energy was almost heartbreaking, "Doris can show you, but you _must_ promise not to take or publish any pictures or descriptive accounts of what you see in there."

"I need to write a report of the investigation," Catherine protested.

"Then make something up!" he replied, as though this were a completely obvious and perfectly acceptable option and she was a dunce for not knowing about it.

Catherine gave Wonka an exasperated look she usually reserved for particularly willful children, but followed Doris down the hall.

"Can you think of anyone who might want to hurt Charlie?" Grissom asked Wonka, who turned back to him suddenly as though the CSI had only just now dropped out of the ceiling.

"Oh, I can think of lots of people," Wonka said distractedly, but failed to elaborate.

"Anyone in particular?" Grissom prompted.

"Well, I'm sure lots of people want to hurt _you_ every day."

"Mr. Wonka, I work in law enforcement. You make candy. There's a world of difference. Now, if we could return to my question—"

"Well, I could name a couple likely people, but that would be slander unless I had evidence to back it up, which I don't, so I won't."

"Actually, it isn't slander unless you directly accuse someone."

"Which I've never done even if it was obvious what they'd done!"

"Is that why you closed the factory, all those years ago?" Grissom asked, raising an eyebrow.

Wonka looked at him sharply, and Grissom could see, behind the veneer of almost childlike petulance, the first signs of… something else?

"People were jealous of your success, stealing your ideas?" he pressed, "But you didn't accuse anyone because you had no evidence. That would be at best mean-spirited and at worst illegal. Right now, our crime lab has evidence that we can't make sense of yet."

"Well, why not?" Wonka asked briskly.

"It's come to my attention that our lab is woefully undereducated in your world – whatever world that happens to be. Naturally, in the interests of this investigation, I have quite a few questions I'd like to ask you."

"Actually at this point you probably have more answers than I do," Wonka replied.

"Why do you say that, Mr. Wonka?"

"I've found that answers are useless without first understanding the questions they go to. Unless you figure out the question, the answers won't make a bit of sense." Grissom raised an eyebrow, considering that this was either the deepest thing he'd ever heard, or the most insane thing he'd ever heard – and he'd held a deep philosophical conversation with a drug-induced schizophrenic. "To that end," Wonka continued, "perhaps you could share some of your answers with me?"

"Fair enough, I suppose," Grissom conceded, "What would you like to know?"

"How did he d…" Wonka gagged slightly on the word "die," but Grissom got the idea.

"We believe Charlie was attacked inside the Wonka Emporium and ultimately drowned," Grissom summarized.

"But Las Vegas is in the middle of a desert – how could he drown?"

"We found chocolate in his lungs. Did you send along some of your melted chocolate to use with the emporium?"

"Well, of course I did. I'm not giving him stale chocolate to sell to the children – my Loompas will only work with the b…" He broke off, then looked sharply at Grissom, as though expecting Grissom to ask about the Loompas.

"The other employees are safe," Grissom reassured him. "Nigel, Oliver, Maxine, Gertie, Betty, Nadine, Elmer, Michael, Alyssa, Andrew, Patrick, Matthew, Arthur, Donna, Samuel, Melissa, Judy, Gabriel, Nathan, and Godfrey all say hi." He noticed that Wonka appeared to be marking off each name on a mental list as Grissom named them, and after he reached Godfrey the chocolatier finally relaxed. "And how did you ship the melted chocolate?"

"It's complicated," Wonka deflected the question with a wave of his hand, "You're all scientific so you probably wouldn't understand it. But it stayed melted and mixed the whole way. Took me a year to figure out how to do that – it's just so hard to ship an entire waterfall like that."

"A… waterfall?" Grissom asked cautiously.

"Well, of course I didn't ship _my_ waterfall – that would be silly. But I made up a little waterfall for Charlie to take along with him."

"Of course," Grissom said, feeling a few parts of his brain shutting down in self-defense.

* * *

"Oh… my… God," Catherine breathed after Doris unlocked the tiny door at the end of the hall and pushed open the entire wall, door and all, to reveal the most astounding thing she had seen in her life.

It was a vast indoor garden like a scene out of a children's book, all vivid colors and whimsical shapes that overall looked as though Lewis Carroll and Edward Gorey had decided to take up landscaping. More Oompa Loompas – hundreds of them, Catherine thought – trotted through the whimsical scenery, occasionally stopping to harvest something or other from this or that plant, gathering them into baskets and carrying them off. The entire place smelled like sugar, in its various permutations, but the most overwhelming smell was chocolate, the origin of which a brief search revealed to be an entire river of chocolate, complete with a roaring chocolate waterfall.

This was the only factory she had ever heard of that mixed its chocolate by waterfall… and probably the only such one in existence.

Doris tugged at her pant leg. "Let me tell them first," she said, "They'll want to know."

Catherine nodded, and Doris reached into the scarlet throat of a flower, emerging with a microphone. She started speaking into the microphone in a series of clicks, yelps, and trills that Catherine supposed was a language as it echoed out from dozens of giant pink bell-shaped flowers.

The hive of activity slowed to a stop at Doris' announcement, and it was not long before two hundred pairs of eyes were focused on Catherine. Finally there was absolute silence in the Chocolate Room, and Catherine realized that Doris had finished speaking and was offering her the microphone.

"I've told them about Charlie," Doris said, "And that you'd help. Tell them."

After a moment's hesitation, Catherine took the microphone which, upon inspection, appeared to be woven out of licorice, though it was obviously fully functional. She tapped the mouthpiece and was rewarded with an echoing _boom_.

"My name is Catherine Willows," she said into it, "My partner and I are working as hard as we can to solve this case." She looked out at the patient stares of the Loompas. "As this point, any information any of you have that might be relevant to this case would be greatly appreciated. In the meantime, could you please point out the Bucket residence?"

Two hundred index fingers indicated a single point on the surreal landscape.

"Thank you. I appreciate it." She handed the licorice-microphone back to Doris, and made her way along a path made of sugary flagstones towards the indicated direction.


	12. Of Boxes and Buckets

Author's notes: Sorry for not updating sooner - I just moved into a new apartment and things got a little crazy for a while. I'm also working on another idea for a CSI crossover, but hopefully I can get this one done before I really start that one. Thank you for all your reviews and encouragement!

* * *

Police Blotter:

2:18 p.m.: An all-points bulletin is put out for Michael R. Teavee, wanted for questioning in the firebombing of the Wonka Chocolate Emporium.

2:20 p.m.: LVPD switchboard flooded with requests for clarification regarding description of suspect, specifically, whether it was heard correctly that he is twelve feet tall and approximately 80 lbs. Description confirmed in all cases.

3:15 p.m.: Las Vegas branch of UPS calls the LVPD regarding a suspicious package. Package determined to be not hazardous, but X-ray revealed something very strange…

"Greg, could you come with me for a moment?" Nick asked, poking his head into the lab. It was eerily silent in there – Greg hadn't felt like playing music in there since the Emporium went up. "By the way, how'd data recovery go?"

Greg glanced up from a small sheaf of printouts. "Sara managed to dig up fifty saved emails on Charlie's hard drive," he said, "Twelve of them from Wonka; the earliest one looks like the first email Willy's ever sent in his life – it's all in caps and he types like a flamer."

"You can tell me the rest on the way. We got a package from UPS to look at."

"Since when are we the bomb squad?" Greg asked as he followed Nick back to the lab, "And since when… Oh God, somebody tried to UPS a body, didn't they?"

"Let's just say it's the sort of thing Grissom would want to look at – but since he's not here…"

Greg felt a small thrill at the idea of being asked to look at Grissom-level evidence.

The package that UPS had sent over was an awkward size – over four feet long but only a foot wide and eight inches deep. It was taped shut with three-inch clear tape and didn't appear to have been tampered with at all. On the whole, it was fairly unremarkable, and addressed to…

"Mr. & Mrs. James Teavee," Greg read the mailing label aloud, "Any idea what's inside?"

"It set off a metal detector, so the UPS people X-rayed it," Nick said, "What else did you find on the hard drive, just out of curiosity? Twelve email messages from Wonka…?"

"The other 33 were from Veruca Salt's email address. Judging from the ones I read, she should be writing to Dear Penthouse."

"That bad?"

"Text only porn fantasies. It was kind of disgusting, really."

"This from someone who reads Penthouse?"

Greg pinked slightly. "Not while I'm on shift."

"Just for the articles, right?" Nick smirked slightly.

"Can we talk about something else? What did the X-ray show?"

Nick went over to a lightboard with an X-ray film clipped to it and turned both sides on. The lamps illuminated the bizarre, if vaguely familiar, outline of a grotesquely elongated human skeleton, curled into a fetal position. There was an opaque oblong shape next to the skull.

"Whoa. Only one guy in the world who looks like that. Any movement from the box since UPS brought it in?"

"None. I was going to open it up in just a moment, but I wanted you here."

Greg looked blank. "… why?"

"Well, by all accounts this is mainly your case."

Greg raised his eyebrows. He'd never considered that.

"… and, with Grissom in England," Nick continued, "I figure you'd be in the best position to appreciate a bizarre find like this."

A noise made them both turn back to the box, just in time to see it settled back into stillness. They exchanged a glance, and then the box wiggled again.

"Jesus," Greg breathed, "He's still alive." He automatically pulled on a pair of latex gloves.

Nick handed him a penknife. "You can do the honors."

Greg beamed at the opportunity, and started slitting the tape holding the box flaps in place.

* * *

Mrs. Bucket was a gray-haired woman of indeterminate age, though her current grief made her look at least seventy. She sat on the couch (fairly new, Catherine noticed, comapred to the rest of the quaintly ramshackle cottage) next to her husband, both of them now past her initial shock at the news of Charlie's death but understandably still looking hollowed out.

"I'm very sorry for the loss of your son," Catherine offered her condolences, "By all accounts he was a sweet young man… but with your permission I'd like to ask you a few questions."

Mrs Bucket offered Catherine a brave smile and a slight nod.

"We'll help however we can," said Mr. Bucket, "We just can't believe anyone would be so malicious."

"I can name one person who might," Mrs. Bucket said harshly.

"Now, dear, this isn't the time to make accusations. You don't know if she'd do something like this."

"Who's that?" Catherine asked.

"That Salt woman," Mrs Bucket spat, "She's an absolute viper."

"Anything specific you can tell me?"

"Two weeks before Charlie left for Las Vegas, she came by the chocolate factory. Said she wanted to talk to Willy – business matters. Now Doris didn't really want to let her in, but Charlie said Willy needed to get used to the outside world and face some of his demons, so he agreed to talk to her."

"What did they talk about?"

"Well, we didn't really hear, but towards the end of it they were arguing. Apparently she wanted to merge the Chocolate Factory with Salt's Peanuts – and Willy, bless his heart, wouldn't hear a word of it. He's a purist, you know – one of the last men who makes candy for candy's sake and not to follow a trend. I imagine he was heartbroken when you told him about Charlie. They became almost like brothers, more than employer and employee."

"Yes, I'd noticed. Grissom and I weren't expecting that."

"Well, you learn to expect the unexpected around here."

"Did Veruca even get violent with Willy or Charlie while she was here?" Catherine asked.

"Not really. It was mainly screaming and tantrums all the way through the garden – until she got to Charlie, who was seeing to the humbug trees by the chocolate river."

"What happened?"

"Well, she marched up to him and pushed him right into the river. The Loompas fished him out right away, of course, but still."

"Did she say why?"

Mrs Bucket made a face. "She said, 'You're always in my way.' Sort of screamed it, actually. Maybe she just meant right then, but Grandpa Joe used to say she was like that during the tour – like she was destined for the final prize and everyone else was just… in the way."

Catherine thought about this for a while. "Mrs. Bucket… how far do you think she'd go to get someone… out of her way?"

Mrs. Bucket shrugged. "Salt's Peanuts didn't get to be number one by her sitting in a hot tub eating bon bons. Lord knows she can afford to, though."

"Thank you, Mrs. Bucket. You've been very helpful."

"When can we arrange to have his body sent to England?" Mr Bucket asked, "I know he'd want to be buried here."

"I'll see what I can do," Catherine reassured him, and took her leave.

Doris was still at the door to the Chocolate Room, and made a point of locking it behind Catherine when she left.

Grissom's list of mental disorders that would be ascribed to Willy Wonka had started at ADHD and was up to Manic Depression when Catherine rejoined them. He was grateful for the reprieve, for Wonka's repertoire of favored topics for discussion spanned exactly one subject.

"Now, many people consider Germany to be home to the best chocolate in the world, but when I went there at 19 I found it to be largely overrated. It was creamy, to be sure, and sweet with just the barest hint of spice – but I just knew I could do better. Now Swiss chocolate—"

"Mr. Wonka?" Catherine broke in. The look of relief on Grissom face was plain.

Wonka immediately broke off in mid-sentence and glanced over at her. "How is she?" he said, in a very different tone of voice; the shift was jarring, once again.

"She'll be okay, I think," Catherine said, "You might want to check on both the Buckets a bit later – they might use the company. I do have one question for you, though, Mr. Wonka."

"Willy, please. Only safety inspectors, tax auditors, Jehovah's Witnesses, telemarketers, Girl Scouts, and frustrated psychiatrists call me Mr. Wonka. Then there's all the screaming young women who mistake me for Johnny Depp, though I can't figure why…"

"Willy, tell me about your meeting with Veruca Salt a couple weeks back."

"It was loud, towards the end. Loud and screamy."

"What did the two of you talk about?"

"Stuff."

Catherine sighed. "What kind of stuff?"

"Business stuff. She wanted to merge my people with her people and I said she and her people could take a flying leap because I wasn't interested and she said I was just a mental patient with the business sense of a thimble and I said she was a horrible little girl with the manners of a hornswoggle and it sort of deteriorated from there into proposals of very improbable acts of procreation, including one which would have resulted in me getting pregnant and I'm not about to become a mom at my age…" He paused to inhale. "And so I asked her to leave."

There was a long moment of baffled silence. Grissom offered Catherine the sympathetic glance of someone who has been sitting through this for a while and regrets not warning the other party of it happening to them.

"Did she threaten you at all?" Grissom finally asked once his brain had had a chance to process the summary.

"Oh yes," Wonka said cheerfully, "Lots of times. But she isn't the type to do things like that. She has lawyers to do her dirty work for her."

"Maybe not this time…" Catherine said thoughtfully.


	13. Rebound

Author's notes: Sorry I haven't updated for a while... I know this chapter is kind of short but my plotbunnies had an attack of lazy recently. Don't worry, the ending is within sight! Enjoy, and keep the reviews coming!

* * *

It got very exciting in the lab after Greg slit the tape that held the UPS box closed. Mike Teavee unfurled from the loosed flaps like a cross between a Jack-in-the-Box and a daddy longlegs spider, nimbly levering himself out on impossibly spindly limbs and cartwheeling off the table. Both CSIs saw immediately that the estimated weight for the adult Teavee had been grossly overestimated – he was built like a cartoon that had just been run over by a steamroller and looked like a stiff breeze would literally blow him away. He paused long enough to glance at Nick and Greg – he was so tall that he had to stoop under the low ceiling – and then curled up like a spider and hurled himself at the door.

"Holy shit," Nick breathed.

"Catch him!" Greg blurted and ran after Teavee. Nick blinked and headed after him, wondering what the Day Shift would think if they saw the notes on this case.

* * *

"I must congratulate you," Grissom said over dinner back at the hotel, "You certainly seemed to have a way with Mr. Wonka."

Catherine frowned. "How do you mean?"

"The way you handled his breakdown when we informed him of Charlie's death, for one."

"He reminded me of Lindsey when her pet hamster died. Call it the mom in me, but I couldn't bear to let him go on like that without doing something. He was… sort of like a six foot tall five-year-old just then. You talked to him longer than me – what was your impression of him?"

Grissom suddenly looked tired. "The list of possible mental disorders that could potentially apply to him would fill a book on abnormal psychology."

Catherine smiled. "I'm sorry."

Grissom smirked. "No you're not. I did notice something about him, though. Every so often, I caught a glimpse of something, like a spark."

"A spark? Of what – insanity?"

"It's hard to say. The man changes moods and topics so fast you get whiplash just talking to him. What did you find when you interviewed the Buckets?"

"An entire garden made out of candy," Catherine replied offhandedly, and was gratified to see Grissom choke on a mouthful of tomato soup.

* * *

Teavee whipped down the corridor like some bizarre superhero, his bare feet bracing on the walls as he snaked down a corridor, stretching like taffy in direct defiance of the skeleton that had shown up on the X-rays. He planted his elongated hands on the floor and whipped his legs forward to kick two police officers who had been coming the other way to investigate the commotion. The kinetic force behind the kicks flattened both cops against the walls, and Teavee continued unhindered.

He turned a corner and saw a doorway, but as he raced for it, a dozen Oompa-Loompas sprinted forward and stacked themselves in the opening, making a human door. Teavee sneered and dove for a small gap in the formation, rolling himself lengthwise to fit. He was nearly through—

—but felt his ankles grabbed from the other side of the barrier. He looked back and saw Greg, who had outpaced Nick, holding grimly onto Teavee, his sneakers braced against the doorframe. Teavee reached out desperately, pulling himself forward on desks, file cabinets, light fixtures, stretching further and further…

"What, are you on dialup today?" Greg needled Nick as the latter caught up and grabbed onto an ankle.

"Get off me, man," Nick retorted, "I wasn't expecting to chase Plastic Man today."

"Just don't lose your grip or he'll go flying out the door."

"What happens if he loses his grip first?"

Greg paused, realizing the implications of this for the first time. He exchanged a worried glance with Nick.

Teavee continued to stretch. Something had to give…

* * *

"An entire river made of chocolate?" Grissom asked incredulously.

Catherine nodded. "With a waterfall. It's like something out of a child's dream. And before you ask, I did check around the river's edge for signs of the encounter between Bucket and Salt – but that was weeks ago, and the grass is apparently make out of sugar, so…"

"Everything's perishable. Great."

"Besides, Wonka's ground crew likely would have fixed it if there was any damage."

"How can you be sure?"

Catherine shrugged. "The Loompas love Wonka. That's all I can say. Charlie's death was a blow to them, too. They didn't say anything, but when they went back to work, it was… subdued. Slower."

"Which bring us back to why someone would kill a man that everyone loved."

Catherine raised her eyebrows. "Not everyone, Gil."

* * *

"Hang on, Nick!"

"His ankles are slipping!"

"His ankles are two feet long! I think you can find a part that isn't sweaty!"

The tug of war had reached a temporary standoff. Teavee had managed to stretch the entire length of the booking room, and was clinging grimly to the doorframe with his rubbery fingertips. One or two of the officers had joined Nick and Greg at the feet end of the elastic suspect; the rest were still obviously trying to process what they were seeing.

Nick glanced at the Oompa-Loompas. "Hey, guys, you think if we all pulled on him together, we can get him off the doorframe?"

The Loompas exchanged a glance, and then nodded. They unstacked, arranged themselves along Teavee's lower legs, and got a grip. The rearmost one nodded to Nick.

"Okay, everybody… on three, everyone pull as hard as you can. Got it? One… two… THREE!"

The formation of manpower heaved backwards. There was a faint snap at the opposite end.

"Okay, I think that's got—"

"HOLY SHIT HE'S SNAPPING BA—"


	14. Driven to Succeed

Author's note: Sorry about the delay! I had to give my muse a few kicks in the butt before she woke up again, but never fear! She is awake now and working madly!

* * *

There would be no handcuffing Mike Teavee. It was technically possible, of course, but about as useful as handcuffing an octopus. In fact, it quickly became clear that all normal police-issued restraints (and even most improvised restraints) would do little to keep Teavee from escaping if he wished. Fortunately he'd been stunned by the impact of rebounding the entire length of the squad room long enough for Nick to improvise a solution…

Brass entered the interrogation room where Teavee sat sulkily, his back bowed and his long arms vanishing beneath the tabletop. The police chief paused contemplatively, and then leaned over to peer under the table, where Teavee's wrists had been tied in a perfect square knot through the legs of the table. He straightened up, shaking his head in disbelief, and offered Teavee a fatherly smile.

"Comfy?" he asked.

"I'm sure there's a law against this somewhere," Teavee responded acidly. His vocal cords were apparently every bit as rubbery as the rest of him, and the timbre of his voice was slightly spasmodic.

"I doubt it," Brass replied, "Coffee?" He offered Teavee one of two paper cups he had with him. Teavee glared. "I'll just leave it here, then." He set the cup of coffee in front of Teavee. "I tell you, you made quite a mess in the squad room, Mr. Teavee. Nobody's ever seen anything like it. I've never seen anything like it. You have probably become the highlight in the careers of many police officers."

"Glad I could entertain you," Teavee growled.

"You know what would really entertain me?" Brass asked as he took a seat across from the rubber man, "See, we already have pretty convincing evidence against you for the candy store firebombing – not many people leave fingerprints like yours, kid. So, you can make things easy on yourself if you just tell us how, and why."

Teavee said nothing.

"That's okay. You're perfectly within your rights not to say anything. I'm sure your accomplice in the next room is getting ready to roll on you any minute."

Teavee remained silent, but Brass' trained eye caught the tiny signs – the slight stiffening of the back and shoulders, the microscopic widening of the eyes – that showed he'd hit a nerve.

"She wouldn't," Teavee finally said.

"Well, we'll just see about that, won't we?"

* * *

"What's this?" Veruca hissed at the cup of coffee Nick offered her. She was, to put it mildly, Not Happy to be there, and felt no qualms about making this fact known.

"This is called 'coffee,'" Nick explained with exaggerated patience, "Which I offered you and you accepted." He set the cup in front of her, but she puckered her mouth in distaste. "My humblest apologies about our lack of a latte machine. I'll bring it up at the next budget meeting. Until then, this is all you're getting."

"I'll have you know I'm filing a complaint against this department as soon as my lawyer catches up."

"You can go right ahead. I'm sure he'll ensure a Starbucks in every precinct. But for the time being, we have a few more important things on our plate than your coffee."

"You know," Veruca said, "Ever since I inherited Daddy's peanut empire, everybody's wanted to get a piece of the pie. My competitors are always digging up dirt on me to try to smear my reputation, the tabloids are interviewing old boyfriends for their next big scoop, and generally the media won't leave me alone. I'm really quite getting tired of all this harassment. All I want to do is go back to New York and attend to my business, so I certainly hope this won't take very long, Mr. Stokes."

Nick looked at her for a long moment. "I'll get right to it, then. Do you own any white mink coats?"

"I own five. Why?"

"Genuine article?"

"Of course. Are you one of those anti-fur activist who's going to spray-paint them?"

"Listen up, princess, right now I don't care how rich and successful you are, or how many mink coats you own. However, any fur coats you brought with you to Las Vegas are currently being confiscated and analyzed in our lab. And I just bet you wanna know why."

"The thought had crossed my mind."

"Because if there is any chocolate on any of them, you will be arrested and charged with murder. I bet the tabloids will just eat that up, huh?"

"Murder?" Veruca blurted, "Murder of whom?"

Nick took out the morgue photo and set it in front of her. "Charlie Bucket. The guy who stood between you and the chocolate factory."

Veruca glanced down at the photo, and then recoiled as she recognized the face. She looked up at Nick, white-faced.

"See, what happens in Vegas doesn't always stay in Vegas," Nick continued.

Veruca burst into tears.

* * *

Mike, meanwhile, was recovering from a spasm of uncontrollable laughter.

"You really think I'd work with Veruca!" he finally choked out, "I wouldn't share a bus seat with that spoiled brat, let alone plan a firebombing with her. She got on my nerves during the tour. I was happy to see her mobbed by squirrels and thrown down the garbage chute. She deserved every second of it. I wouldn't even cross the street to piss on her limo."

"So you deny any part in the firebombing?" Brass asked.

Mike scoffed. "The security on that place was so lax I could have robbed the place blind if I wanted to."

Brass frowned. "Okay, I'm confused. You admit to the bombing but you deny working with Miss Salt to do it?"

"Do I get a deal if I talk?"

"Only if you tell us who you were working with."

"What makes you think I was working with someone? You think I can't pull this off by myself?"

"Well, you don't exactly blend in with a crowd. Not many people around here are twelve feet tall and made out of rubber. And, quite frankly, I don't think you're smart enough to plan something like this by yourself."

"Trust me, building a bomb is easy," Mike retorted, "They have directions all over the internet… the Anarchist's Cookbook, that sort of thing. And I majored in chemistry in college – so I could improvise if I had to. Obviously I couldn't take anything with me because it wouldn't fit through the mail slot…"

"Hold on," Brass said, putting a hand up, "Before we go any further, this is starting to sound more and more like a confession. Did you understand your rights as they were read to you when you woke up?"

"Of course I understood them. I hear them all the time on police dramas. I have the right to be silent, and I have the right to a lawyer."

"Do you want a lawyer? You realize that arson is a felony, right?"

"Once I file a lawsuit against this precinct for police brutality, you won't be able to make any charges stick. I know my rights. Throwing a man across the room and then tying him to a table cannot be construed as 'minimum necessary force' by any definition."

"I think once the judge sees the surveillance tape of you stretching to three times your body length, he might disagree."

"Whatever."

Brass frowned. Cocky bastard.

* * *

Nick wasn't sure if Veruca's tears were genuine or the crocodile variety. Still, he wouldn't get anywhere if he assumed wrongly, so he tried the opposite tack.

"You know," he said, "You might feel better if you get this off your chest. Confession being good for the soul and all."

Veruca blew her nose, and then looked up at Nick with red-rimmed eyes. "I couldn't have killed Charlie," she said, "I loved him."

"Whoa…" Nick held up his hands. "Back up. Say that again?"

"I don't think Wonka really understood that his apprentice was growing up," she said, "I mean, the man never left his factory. He'd send Charlie out on errands so he didn't have to face the world. I think he knew that was changing, and it may have scared him a bit."

"So, how did this start, then?" Nick couldn't believe, from the information he had about Veruca and Charlie, that such a relationship had a snowball's chance in hell of developing, but the more he got her talking the deeper the hole she would dig herself.

"We met at a snack foods conference last year, in Berlin. Daddy had just passed on, so it was up to me to represent Salt's Peanuts. I saw Charlie there, in a bright purple suit and holding a German phrasebook, fumbling his way through the simplest social interactions. Now, I know I was a horrible little girl ten years ago, but that was then. I decided to help him out… and we hit it off."

"I bet that pissed Wonka off, his apprentice dating the woman whose father tried to sue him into the ground."

She glanced away demurely. "He never knew. We were careful not to meet up in London. It was more of a long-distance affair than actually dating."

"So what was in it for you?" Nick probed.

She looked sharply at him. "You act like you've never had any forbidden affairs in your life. It was the thrill, mainly, of being able to escape the public eye and go somewhere nobody can find you, a place that you can share only with one other person…"

"So, tell me what happened on the fourth of July."

"Nothing happened."

"We have witnesses who saw the two of you arguing in the candy store."

She frowned. "But who… oh. The Oompa-Loompas were there. No wonder he was trying to hard to get me to leave. And here I thought he'd found somebody new in Vegas."

Nick smirked. "What, choose someone else over sweet little you?"

She scowled. "You should be talking to the woman he had an appointment with after me. She'll tell you I left him alive."

"Okay… do you know who she was?"

She wrinkled her nose. "Of course I do… even though she's New Money. Brenda Lee Teavee."

"Teavee? As in Mike Teavee?"

* * *

"You trust her?" Warrick asked Sara. The two of them were watching Veruca's interrogation from the adjoining observation room.

"About as far as I can throw her," Sara replied, "But if we don't follow up on potential leads…"

"Reasonable doubt." Warrick grimaced. "I have to tell you, I like her for this."

"Tell you what – I'll go check to see if Greg's found any chocolate on the poor little rich girl's fur coats. If he has, all the reasonable doubt in the world won't keep her spoiled butt out of prison."

"Right."

She left. Warrick went to the observation room overlooking Teavee's interrogation and knocked on the two-way glass. Brass glanced up, excused himself, and went to the door.

"What's up?" he asked once the door was closed between him and Teavee.

"What's Stretch Armstrong got to say?"

"I'm learning a lot about homemade explosives. We can nail him on the bomb charge, easily. He seems almost proud of it – but he still won't give up his accomplice."

"Ask him about Brenda Teavee."

"Who's that, his mom?"

"I guess so. Miss Salt said Mrs. Teavee came in as she was leaving the candy store."

"Might be interesting. How's Greg doing on the coats?"

"Sara's checking on that now."

"Good. Keep me posted." Brass went back into the interrogation room.

"Still don't believe I could have pulled this off?" Teavee snarled, "Really, with a little application of chemistry, a retard could have blown the place up."

"Oh, I believe you," Brass said, "Right now I'm just wondering where your mom is right about now."

"She's in Indiana," Teavee said guardedly, "She went to live with Gran and Pop after the divorce. You leave her alone – she's got nothing to do with this."

"Divorce, huh?" Brass frowned in thought. If Mrs Teavee was in Indiana, then she couldn't have anything to do with this. She probably wouldn't even know about the Emporium. Unless…

"Did your dad ever remarry?"

Teavee wrinkled his nose. "Two months later. I couldn't believe it. He'd always said he loved mom, but the second she was out of the picture, he hooked up with that peroxide-poisoned Barbie doll… and I just knew she wanted the money he made off of Wonka stock. It pisses me off."

"Really? What's Barbie's name, by the way?"

"Brenda Lee Beauregard." Teavee appeared to take great pleasure in not acknowledging her new married name.

"Beauregard? Any relation to…"

"Yeah. Violet's mom. She turned into a complete nutjob, too, always talking about how Wonka turned her beloved daughter into a purple circus freak."

"Any ideas where your stepmom is right now?"

Teavee sighed in exasperation at the collective foibles of everyone older than him. "Last I heard, she talked Dad into taking her on a tour of Europe. They're probably around Scotland right now. Why?"

"The Las Vegas Police Department appreciates your cooperation, son."

"I'm not your son," Teavee growled, but Brass was already gone.

* * *

End of Chapter 14. 


	15. Full Circle

Author's note: Sorry about the delay, all - been sick this week. But don't worry, I haven't forgotten about this story!

* * *

In a London hotel room, two cell phones rang. Grissom answered one, while Catherine answered the other. It was nine in the morning, local time.

"Grissom."

"Willows."

"You have a suspect in the bombing? Good! I'm glad to hear that."

"Mr. Wonka wants to do a follow-up interview? When?"

"A suspect in the Bucket killing? What does that have to do with—"

"Right now? Well, it'll take us a bit to get there…"

"Our neck of the woods? Should we be on the lookout for somebody?"

"Well, yes, of course we'll be there as soon as… what?"

There was a pause, before both CSIs blurted out the same phrase:

"Violet Beauregard's mom?"

They exchanged a glance.

"Brass, can I call you back?"

"Doris, we'll be right over."

Two thumbs stabbed two END buttons on two cell phones.

* * *

It was clear to even Doris that Brenda Teavee had been dragged kicking and screaming into middle age, along with her army of Botox, hair dye (guaranteed to cover greys), breast implants, and chemical peels. She looked youthful, to be sure, but about as biodegradable as a Barbie doll. She knew her current husband didn't much care – after the shock of divorce he'd clung to any life raft he found, and she made sure he found her.

She stood by the trompe l'oeil door at the end of the hall while Doris finished her phone call and made her way down the long metal passage towards the Chocolate Room. Of course that freak Wonka had sounded quite eager to learn what news she had on Charlie's murder – and she knew exactly who the culprit was. She resisted the urge to check the contents of her purse one more time as Doris drew level with her and unlocked the door. The door swung open, and Doris motioned her into the sugary garden.

Wonka was already there, sitting on a giant pink mushroom and swinging his legs like an excited child.

"Hello!" he chirped as he hopped down.

"I'm glad you remember me," Brenda said smoothly.

"Actually, I don't," he responded blithely, with a wave of his hand, "But Charlie said I had to have some visitors sometimes."

"Oh, good," she said, "And funny you should mention Charlie…"

"Oh, yes, he was such a delightful young man, wasn't he? Always minded his P's and Q's and all the other letters he knew. Chocolate in his soul, the Loompas always said, nicest person I ever thought I might ever meet…" As he talked, he hop-scotched along a path of candy flagstones whose path circled around behind Brenda. She turned to keep him in sight, knowing full well how unpredictable he could be. "Which of course, brings me to the bigbigbig question of the day, the one that everyone in the world wants to know the answer to, but especially me, and I know you're the only one in the whole wide world who can give me that answer, because you're the only one who knows."

"And what question is that, Willy Wonka?"

He stopped dead in the middle of his capering and turned sharply on his heel, fixing her with a purple stare. It was intense and every bit as focused as he had been apparently unfocused before. "… why?"

"Why what?" she asked, confused by the nebulous query.

"Why did you kill him?"

* * *

Grissom and Catherine elected not to wait for their police escort to show up. Grissom was currently navigating the treacherous London traffic en route to the factory, which even now loomed maddeningly ever closer as they wended towards it. Catherine wasn't sure she could have made the transition from right-handed driving to left-handed driving on the fly – but Grissom seemed to manage with no mental hiccups. Catherine could only hope they would get there in time…

* * *

"…What?" Mrs Teavee asked, stunned.

"Think about it, really. Braining my assistant isn't very subtle. And whatever else Veruca is, she's learned how to be subtle. You, on the other hand…" Wonka smiled, "You're a Shock Tart to her Banana Laffy Taffy."

Mrs. Teavee frowned.

"And I just bet you kept the murder weapon, didn't you? Little trophy, little sense of justice, little creepy thoughts of getting me as well?"

"Assuming what you say is true – and I'm not conceding it is—"

"Yet," Wonka grinned.

"AT ALL," Mrs. Teavee corrected him, "You still have to prove it. Veruca isn't the only one who's in tight with her lawyers… and she hated him more than I did."

"But then this wasn't about him, was it? Nope, never ever ever about him, not one little bit. I mean, maybe the part in Vegas, but like everyone, he was just a means to an end. A tool. To ruin me. Are you still mad about… oh, what was her name? Little short person…"

"My daughter, Violet!"

"Is that who that was? I can never remember names and faces – I heard she's doing very well for herself, though."

"She's a circus freak!"

"Acrobat, I heard. Very popular, very talented…"

"She's BLUE, you sugary freak!" Mrs. Teavee reached into her handbag.

"Uh, a word of warning, if I may… right now you are in my candy garden, surrounded by lots of people who love me. Incidentally, they like me as much as they don't like you. So would you do me a HUGE favor and consider your next moments carefully? I don't want anyone to get hurt, you know." He clicked his tongue chidingly. "There you go, not being subtle again. Honestly…"

* * *

The gates were open by the time the investigators arrived, so after a quick glance around for any immediate danger they headed right up to the main doors. Grissom raised his fist to knock, but before he made contact the door was snatched open from within.

At first it appeared that the door had simply opened itself, until the CSIs heard a throat being cleared at just below knee level. They looked down and saw Doris gesturing impatiently.

"Okay," Grissom said, "Where are they?"

She beckoned one last time and darted down the steel corridor, so quickly that Catherine and Grissom had to follow at a fast jog. Catherine knew what was coming up, but she could understand her partner's confusion as they reached the far end and he glanced down at the tiny door that Doris was starting to unlock.

"Why's the door so—" he began, only to be cut off abruptly by a reverberating pop.

"Gunshot," Catherine identified even as her heart leapt into her throat, "But it shouldn't be echoing like that. There's no room…"

"And the echoes aren't dying away," Grissom concurred, as a satisfying click indicated that the door was unlocked. The wall swung into the Chocolate room, and the investigators were confronted with an astonishing sight.

Mrs Teavee had a small revolver gripped in both hands, pointed at Wonka in a perfect firing stance. Wonka stood several yards away, half-leaning as though preparing to dive away, one hand outstretched. From the outstretched hand, wispy tendrils of what appeared to be purplish fire licked outward towards Mrs. Teavee, mushrooming out as they collided gently with a small bullet that was even now still creeping towards the candymaker.

"Oh my god," Catherine said, sensing Grissom's mind trying frantically to justify the tableau.

An eyeblink later, Wonka dove to one side, and instantly the bullet resumed its normal trajectory, impacting harmlessly against a tree that promptly started leaking pink syrup. In a heartbeat, it appeared that the garden itself came to Wonka's defense, as a cluster of creeper vines whipped out and around Mrs. Teavee's ankles, fouling her up as she tried to draw a bead on Wonka again. She lost her balance and fell prone onto the mint-green lawn, fighting and struggling as the vines quickly coiled their efficient way up her legs and around her torso.

Wonka, meanwhile, was sitting giggling madly as though he had not just literally dodged a bullet, clapping his hands in pure childlike glee as his would-be murderer was cocooned.

"Oh, isn't that just delightful?" he chirped as he stood up, "You have no idea how long I had to look to find those – but it was worth it, every bit of it. Oh, she'll be fine as soon as she stops struggling…" He glanced down at her. "… which might not happen for a while… Doris! You've brought guests! Welcome back!" He flashed his mouthful of Chiclet teeth at the two investigators as he walked up to greet them, then he noticed Grissom's expression with a hint of concern. "I'm sorry, but if you have a question you need to raise your hand and wait to be called on."

"What just happ—" Catherine started.

"YOU DIDN'T RAISE YOUR HAND!" Wonka interrupted, pointing the head of his walking stick at her.

Then his shoulder exploded.

The force of the shot spun him 180 degrees, with a slightly baffled expression on his face, until his crossed ankles buckled underneath him and he folded onto the turf. Beyond him, Oompa Loompas swarmed out of the underbrush and dog-piled Mrs. Teavee, wrenching the gun from her fingers.

Catherine knelt by the fallen candymaker. His shoulder was bleeding freely, and she applied pressure with her bare hands to try to slow the flow.

"I'm not getting any reception in here!" Grissom said, "Doris, call an ambulance!" The diminutive receptionist hesitated, clearly reluctant to bring Outsiders into the factory. "Mr. Wonka's been shot! He needs a doctor, do you understand?" Finally she nodded and beckoned for him to follow. He trailed after he as she darted away.

"'s not their fault," Wonka said, almost dreamily, "They never really understood guns… and I never had the heart to teach them. Guns never made anyone happy…"

"Don't try to talk," Catherine said, as he bled over her hands. She glanced up at the nearest Loompa. "I can't stop the bleeding. I need a dressing, some sort of wadding, something I can put in the wound – God, can you even understand me?"

The Loompa saluted, nodded, and started shinning up a tree. A few moments later he whistled and tossed down a pink fruit. She caught it, puzzled. Another Loompa on the ground mimed hitting it against the ground. She did so, and the fruit split open to reveal a taffylike pulp. The Loompa on the ground nodded and pantomimed. Catherine smeared the taffy-pulp into the gunshot wound and pressed on it, hoping for the best.

"Ow. You know, I swear, that woman has no idea how much it's going to cost to have this coat repaired," Wonka rambled aimlessly in the same dreamy tone, "This is real velvet, you know. And the cleaning bill is going to be absolutely outrageous…"

"Mr. Wonka, she shot you," Catherine said, concerned that he didn't seemed to be concerned.

"Oh, is that what that was? It's understandable, I guess, considering her state of mind. Not that I'd want to do it again, of course. She still blames me for her daughter. Not my fault, I told the girl not to chew that gum."

"Mr. Wonka, please…"

"And Violet seemed perfectly happy when she left anyway. Oh well, showbiz moms these days…"

Catherine became aware of unusual activity under her hands. She moved them a fraction, and saw the taffy was glowing. Her eyes widened.

"Keep up the pressure, Catherine," Wonka said, "It's doing exactly what it's supposed to." He looked up at her, and his eyes looked considerably clearer than she would have expected, considering the circumstances. He reached up with his uninjured arm and gently pressed her hands back into place. "Just a few more seconds."

* * *

"That's right, the Chocolate Factory," Grissom said into the landline phone Doris had offered him, "Police and paramedics. No, I don't think we need the fire department. Look – someone shot Willy Wonka. No, I'm not kidding. Yes, we know who. She's… being detained. Just hurry up. The gates should be open." He hung up.

"Gil, I think you should come see this," he heard Catherine call from the far end of the corridor. As he headed back towards the Chocolate Room, he saw Wonka sit up, then grimace and clutch at his chest over his collarbone.

"Mr. Wonka, you shouldn't try to move. An ambulance is on the way to take care of…" He trailed off when Wonka lowered his hand. The ragged holes in his suit were still there, both at the front and the back, as was the bloodstain where the exit wound had been… but where the wounds had been – where Grissom saw the bullet pass through – he saw only patches of shocking pink skin, slightly shiny but otherwise unharmed.

"An ambulance is coming?" Wonka asked brightly, "Good – I think I might have a broken collarbone. And the taffy probably won't hold for very long but that's okay because you have an ambulance coming, right?"

"Taffy?" Grissom asked numbly.

"Oh yes," Wonka replied as he got gingerly to his feet. Beyond him, Mrs. Teavee was entirely mummified in the mysteriously aggressive creepers, which created a bizarrely tapered shape like a giant green marijuana joint, albeit one that was wiggling and grunting angrily. "It's a shame all this had to happen you know…"

"Did you know this was going to happen?" Catherine asked.

"Of course I did. It doesn't take a whole lot of deduction to see the pattern – first my apprentice, then the store, and then me. Obviously someone wanted to break me first. And this was clearly personal – that's how I knew it wasn't Veruca. For all her hissyfits and tantrums, she'd learned how to keep business separate from personal. But Mrs. B… with her, everything was personal. She thought she could curry favor by flirting with me during the Tour – THAT creeped me out a bit, but never mind that. Then, after her daughter got her final reward you should have SEEN the look she gave me! My gosh, you would have thought I'd done something horrible!"

"So you took precautions to protect yourself?" Grissom asked, starting to regain his equilibrium.

Wonka nodded, then added sadly, "It's just a shame about Charlie… he was coming along so well – I really thought he'd be able to inherit the Factory. But now he's gone and I'm too old to hold another Tour to find a new heir. Besides, young people today just don't appreciate the merits of truly good candy. It's all video games and cell phones and iPods… There's no wonder and magic anymore."

Grissom considered this, and then got a small smile on his face. "Mr. Wonka… I may be able to help you with that."

Catherine and Wonka both looked at him curiously.

* * *

To be concluded...


	16. The Torch is Passed

Author's note: Here it is, the final chapter of probably the weirdest crossover I've ever written. I had lots of fun working on this story, and I hope all of you had fun reading it. Thanks!

The last time the LVPD had been called in to create a buffer zone between a new arrival and a crowd had involved the Mafia, and the individual in question had been about as far from the strange chocolatier as it was possible to get and still remain within the same species. Besides, the planned reception this time around was rather less hostile, as Nick and Warrick saw to their utter confusion while they waited for the return of two team members and the arrival of someone Grissom only described as a "guest."

"'Willy will you be my sugar daddy?'" Nick read the closest sign, which was in purple magic marker on pink posterboard.

"I've got one over here who wants to have his baby," Warrick returned, "and someone else who seems to think Johnny Depp is showing up. Sara would have a stroke if that happened."

"All this over some guy who hasn't set foot outside in about ten years and makes candy." Nick shook his head in amusement. "Maybe I should try making chocolate."

Warrick made a face. "I've tasted your cooking."

"You're absolutely right. It isn't easy to create the most fantabulously tasty chocolate in the whole wide world."

There was a puzzled pause.

"… What?" Warrick asked, but as he turned to find out what drug Nick was suddenly smoking, he noticed the man standing behind them. He was wearing a purple suit and a top hat, and he looked like he and the sun were nodding acquaintances, at best. He was grinning deliriously, even though one arm was in a sling.

"This is so exciting!" he chirped, dropping his imitation of Nick's slight twang and clapping his hands like a child, "I've never been to Las Vegas before… I'd heard that it was bright but I didn't think it would be… BRIGHT! Wow!"

"Uh… who are you?" Nick finally ventured, "And how did you get in here?"

The grinning man stepped back and offered Nick a gloved hand to shake. "I'm Willy Wonka, maker of the most excitingly tasty, delicious, and all around groovytastic candies the world has ever seen!"

Nick shook the offered hand like Wonka might jump on him and try to bite off his nose. "Okay, that's one question answered…"

"And Dr. Grissom was nice enough to show me in the back way. He saw all those young ladies out there and right away he was concerned for my well-being… though I don't know why he thought they might jump on me and try to tear off my clothes. It's not like there's anything very interesting underneath."

"That was a mental picture I didn't need…" Warrick said, pinching the bridge of his nose, "Look, is there someplace you need to be, or…?"

"Oh yes! Thank you for reminding me!" Wonka switched gears so fast the careful observer could hear his mental transmission groaning in protest. "I need you or you to show me to the lab. I'm supposed to meet someone there."

"Okay, who?"

"I don't really know yet. Dr. Grissom said I'd know him when he saw me. Do either of you know what that means?"

"No," Nick said, "But we better get you away from this door before they start throwing their underwear at you." He took Wonka by the arm and started guiding him out of the lobby.

"But why would they do that? I'd look absolutely silly in—"

"I'll explain it when you're older, man."

The lab that Greg called his home away from home was now completely cleaned of the shrapnel and debris of what he chose to report as "an aberrant laboratory incident" to the insurance company (taking care to note that it was unlikely to happen again), and was instead filled with the dulcet strains of AC/DC. Upon hearing that the culprit in both the murder of Charlie Bucket and the firebombing of the emporium had been caught and was being extradited back to the United States, he felt that this was the perfect time to celebrate with a bit of music. As such, he didn't immediately notice the two observers watching him through the Plexiglas.

"He certainly seems to be a cheerful young man," Wonka observed, as Greg mimed along to the guitar solo.

"Yeah," Nick replied, "He's the only one who had any idea what was going on, really."

"Oh?" Wonka glanced at Nick, "I thought you were all crimefighters."

"Yeah, but… I'll just let him explain." He knocked on the Plexiglas.

Greg jumped slightly at the noise and turned to see who was there. His jaw dropped and his eyes widened when he saw Wonka.

Nick and Wonka silently watched the unfolding scene for a few seconds.

"Why's he running around the lab yelling 'oh my god oh my god oh my god'?" Wonka finally asked.

"I have no idea," Nick said tiredly, "He's been a bit weird all through the case."

Wonka tilted his head. "What's his name?"

"Greg Sanders. He's the senior lab tech here." Nick snorted. "Nearly blew up the lab with some of your candy, but I don't think we'd have gotten this far without him."

"Man with the plan vexing the techs with the fire in the hole from my dandy candy?"

"What? Look, all I know is that he's a fan of yours. Beyond that…"

Wonka smiled slowly. "Might I borrow him for about an hour or so?"

"Uh, what for?"

"I just want to see something. Could you go and fetch my Oompa-Loompas? Oh yes, I think Dr. Grissom would be very interested to see this."

"See what?"

"Well, if you want to see it, I guess you'll just have to come too, won't you? But first, my Oompa-Loopas." He made shooing motions at Nick, who finally headed off, shaking his head in disbelief.

Wonka slid open the glass door to the lab, where Greg was still having a mild conniption right up to the point when he collided with the chocolatier, who had stepped into his path. Greg stared for a moment at the grinning Wonka.

"Oh my god… It's really you!"

"Nooo, you are you and I am I. See, it doesn't work the other way around, because if I were you I probably wouldn't have gotten the blond tips frosted into my hair." He glanced down. "Nice sneakers, though. Dr. Grissom tells me that you put a lot of work into finding out what happened to Charlie, and I'd like to thank you for it – but first I hear there's a spot of work to be done on the candy shop before it's ready to open."

Greg's face fell. "It was firebombed. It won't be opening for a while. Probably not until next year now."

"Oh, you don't know that for a fact. I think it could open as early as tomorrow morning, actually. I just need some help getting it fixed up."

"Me?"

"Well, you've come this far just fine. I don't think it'll be as hard as you think it might be. Ah!"

This last was directed towards the viewing window, where the Loompas were clustered excitedly around Nick's shins. Wonka grinned delightedly as his workers stampeded in, crouching to gather them in a group hug and wobbling only slightly as they hit.

"Ha ha ha! Oh, be careful, I'm an old man, you know! It's good to see all of you again!" He straightened up. "Thank you for taking care of them. I know they must have been so scared."

Nick rubbed his forehead in recent memory of the candy pelting that he and Warrick had received. "Yeah."

"Now would you tell Dr. Grissom and Miss Willows to meet us at the Emporium site just as soon as Grissom is done having a headache in the break room? I'd like them both to see this, especially 'it's just chocolate' Grissom, okay?" He patted Nick on the head and darted away.

"They're here," Greg said as Wonka's pacing survey of the wreckage seemed to be drawing to a close.

"Oh, goody. I was hoping it wouldn't take them very long."

"So is half of Nevada, by the looks of the crowd behind the police perimeter."

Wonka turned, saw that this appeared to be so, and beamed. "How lovely. I have an audience. Hello people!" He waved enthusiastically to the crowd, but jumped slightly at the roar of approval he got in response. He leaned close to Greg. "Are they always like that?"

"This is Las Vegas."

"Oh. Right." He made a beeline for the Tahoe bearing Grissom and Catherine.

"I'm not sure I understand what we're doing here," Grissom said, "We know what happened already."

"Well, you know what happened, but do you know what's going to happen? You're very smart, but I don't think you know even that. Come along. You too, Miss Willows – I want both of you to have front-row seats."

"To what?" Catherine asked.

"You'll see, you'll see! Just hurry up!" Wonka sprinted back to the burned-out husk of the Emporium, then leaned on his walking stick as he surveyed the building critically. Greg soon joined him.

"What do you think?" he asked Wonka.

"I think we need to fix up this store a bit so it can open."

"Well… yeah. But how are we going to do that? It'll take months to fix up…"

Wonka smiled. "You just have to believe. Now hold this." He handed Greg his walking stick. He laced his long fingers together and cracked his knuckles. "Now, let's see here…" He extended a finger almost shyly towards the wreckage. Greg saw purple sparks lick briefly across the rubble. Wonka grinned. "Looks to me like they want to dance."

"Should I stand back?" Greg asked.

"Might get a little exciting around here… but it's absolutely safe. Nobody's ever died from my magic. Yet." He made a sweeping gesture with his uninjured arm across the front of the burned-out store, and a tongue of purple flame swept across the wreckage. Rubble and broken timbers started to leap into the air and dance. Behind them, the crowd cheered, and over the noise, Greg heard the Oompa-Loompas begin to chant. He glanced around, and the little elfin candymakers had formed a circle around himself and Wonka.

"Fixin' it, fixin' it, fixin' it, fixin' it…" came the chant.

"What in the world…?" Catherine asked, watching the lightshow unfold

"Strontium and copper chloride burn with a purple flame," Grissom said, uncertainly, "It's used in fireworks."

"If that place was laced with fireworks, we would have known about it a long time ago – like when it was bombed to begin with."

"It's the only possible explana—"

He stopped short as a loud WHOOSH noise erupted from the store's husk, and a blast of air surged out from the building. Broken bricks, shattered timbers, and snapped rebars spiraled up from the site.

Wonka was laughing, even as sweat beaded on his pale brow.

"What's happening!" Greg shouted above the maelstrom.

"Magic!" Wonka replied giddily, "Just believe and you can do anything!"

"How are you doing all this?"

"I have no clue!"

The spiraling storm of debris slowed, paused in midair, and then whirled back down. Greg watched as a torn display reassembled itself and danced across the dusty linoleum, to be joined by its brothers. The racks danced and whirled in a bizarre industrial ballet, and a machine that looked like the upper half of some whimsical robot hand-walked like a dexterous amputee through a space that was presently being defined by a doorway. Brick-halves found their mates and started assembling themselves into walls at lightning speed. Electrical wires spliced themselves together and snaked into place behind the sheetrock.

"Griss! Cath! Are you SEEING THIS!" Greg shouted, but as he turned he saw the question was irrelevant, for the looks on their faces told him all he needed to know. They saw.

"I need your help, Mr. Sanders," Wonka said suddenly, and the breathlessness in his voice told Greg he was nearing the end of his strength. "I'm not as young as I used to be, and I need your help to finish up."

"What can I do?"

"Hold out my cane, but don't let go of it, whatever happens. And if you've ever believed in anything whimsical, anything fanciful, anything unscientific in your life, believe now."

Greg absorbed this curious instruction, and finally nodded. He held out the candy-striped walking stick to Wonka, who grabbed onto it. Greg felt a surge, like touching an improperly grounded electrical wire. He looked at his free hand and saw purple sparks licking over his fingers.

"Quickly!" Wonka urged.

Greg dared not think about it too hard. He held out his hand to the half-completed building, and felt another surge, this one outbound. The shuffling and stacking of bricks accelerated, and soon the rising walls obscured the dancing shelves within. The roof came together like a jigsaw puzzle and uncurled into place atop the building.

"This is… so… cool!" Greg shouted.

"Isn't it, though? Now you can put the shelves… any way you like… and don't forget the display window."

Grissom glanced down, and saw a shard of glass on the pavement in front of him. As an experiment, he put his foot on top of it. Other shards and pebbles of glass from the smashed display window slid and skittered towards the nearly-rebuilt store… and Grissom felt a tugging sensation under his foot, as though the shard he'd captured was trying to join its fellows. He stepped harder, trying not to break it, feeling the shard wiggle and struggle under his foot.

"My god," he said quietly, "This is real."

Just then the shard flew out from under his foot with such force that Grissom was left reeling.

"Criss Angel, eat your heart out," Catherine remarked.

"This isn't an illusion, Catherine!" Grissom sounded like he was only just wrapping his brain around the idea. "This is really happening!"

"I know – and it's driving you nuts, I bet."

The window collapsed together in the space of a few seconds. Moments later, the storefront sign came together, followed by the front door with its greeting bell. The storefront sign came on with a buzz of electricity.

"Almost done," Greg said as he turned to the sign at the far corner of the parking lot. It was still canted drunkenly from the blast. He imagined it standing up straight again, and with a groan it corrected itself and lit up. The crowd cheered – and Greg, who was still giddy from using magic – magic! Him! – finally turned back to Wonka.

Willy Wonka was laying on the pavement, entirely too still for Greg's comfort.

"Oh my god—Mr. Wonka!" Greg crouched beside the fallen chocolatier and felt for a pulse. It was there, thin and thready, but weak. "Somebody call an ambulance!"

Wonka opened his eyes and glanced foggily up at Greg. He smiled. "Is it done?" he asked.

Greg nodded. "Just like it was before. Better. It's ready to open. Are you okay?"

"Oh, I'm as okay as can be expected. I probably won't be doing that again anytime soon, but really, what are the odds that I'd have to? It was for a good cause anyway."

"It's not worth killing yourself."

"There's not enough candy in the world these days. Everyone's so practical anymore, able to keep in touch with everybody but nobody really connects anymore. I wish it were a simpler time again. Take care of the store, would you? And the Oompa-Loompas over here?"

Greg nodded. "I'll take care of it. I can run the store when I'm not in the lab."

"And remember this: When you helped me finish the store, I passed on the last of my magic to you. Use it wisely."

"Magic? I've got magic now?"

"Not a lot… but enough. A spark goes a long way anymore."

The ambulance siren started sidling into the conversation in the background.

"Don't worry about me, Greg," Wonka said, "I'll be fine before you know it. Oh look – Mr. Grissom is playing Spiderman…"

Greg looked, and saw his supervisor running his hands across the recently repaired brick storefront, searching for the breaks and fissures that he knew had to be there.

"You won't find any, Griss," Greg told him.

Grissom turned to Greg. "I saw it happen. I saw everything being put back together. It was…"

Greg grinned. "Like magic?"

Grissom offered him a tired look. "Please, don't start that again."

Paramedics shooed Greg away from Wonka.

"Be careful – I'm ticklish!" Wonka scolded as they loaded him onto a stretcher.

As the ambulance left, Greg surveyed the newly rebuilt Emporium. Grissom glanced over at him curiously.

"Well," Greg said to nobody in particular, "I can think of worse second jobs…"

Finis


End file.
